From the outset you were never his friend,
Innate honesty formed a trusting child,
Which made him useful. He never saw then;
The hard, determined chin beneath the smile
An iron will, dressed in costumed shyness.
If ever contradicted you would flush
Red to your ears, eyes black, you spat silence
Self-doubt rushing to defend defiance.
One lunch break you began to wind him in,
Not consciously, perhaps but confident
That you were in control, you took him home,
Not fascinated but intrigued by then,
To kettle-steamed windows and beans on toast,
A warmth heād never known and here he found
A friend, a brother, who would carry him,
With surgeonās hands, to carve last last words from sound.
This was disloyalty, you never dreamed
Youād vie for his attention, watched as they
Hit it off so well, your brother bolted
From your lifelong control. Soon, every day
Flustered and jealous, you would listen in,
To conversations not including you.
A middle child, a fifth wheel, troubling
And troubled, no one cared or even knew.
The boy who you could silence with a look
Suddenly had back-up; confidence ran
Through him like champagne, bringing new feelings
Ease, trust and love youād never understand.
The day you found them in each otherās arms,
Exploring feelings, the web floated wide,
And for all time this innocent betrayal marked
Justification. Winter broke inside.
You were young too, maybe sociopathic;
Rigid, unable to fathom others,
Unaware of self and narcissistic,
Weād forgive you anything but now,
Youāre an old man looking back on childhood;
To call a teenage kid a paedophile,
Is grotesque. This lost boy who is silent,
The boy we watched you grow up with, all smiles.
Was it kindness? His death came before lies,
You set down immortal unforgiving
To blind others with the truth in your eyes;
All you achieved was your last undoing.
There you are, for all time: carved on a page,
An extra twenty buys a signature.
A poet never could so neatly phrase
Who you are, your very ugly core.
Poor little man, for all your cruelty,
Itās you we pity. All your pretty songs,
Your neat middle eights, your borrowed voice
The ruination of unearthly sound,
Pompous, vividly dull and livid with spite,
Drawing lines in the sand where none must pass,
Only yes men allowed, theyāre thinning, mind,
And future listeners will not be so blind.
Masterful, you steer the few who worship
Always to your cause; even back when you
Slid into his girlfriend, he was punished,
For saying that heād lost her and his friend.
āSo bitter,ā theyād bleat, āhe should be grateful,ā
Youād feign ambivalence but were wary;
You knew the real truth, it made you hateful:
He was Mozart to your Salieri.
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