Where is the boy lost
In the journey to the man?
Where is the balance point
In which he slips in metamorphosis
Through youth toward old age,
In transit of time’s
Morphing body become?

Perhaps he is not lost
But changed in skin
And greying hair
And stiffness in the bones,
The boy alive
But draped in memory’s
That sway the free thoughts
Of boyish dreams
From all their boyish freedoms.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2016

Personal Universe

Are there really
Any wrong turns
Or mistakes
In the journey
Of our living
And in the writing
Of our life?

It is one way
Or the other,
Or another
Entirely different
Something else.

Who knows
And who is right?
Who can know ‘the truth’
Beyond their own
Or pass a judgement
Beyond the perception of the self?

And who is not alone
Upon the earth,
Solitary and singular
In every sense,
Sharing but paradox
And conundrum
Of the personal universe?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Where The Poem Is Found

In the flutter-eyed trance
Of scent moods,
And in the gland of salivation
And sensation:
Like snake-tongued
Understanding of the air around,
The taste of unseen elements
From beyond the earthly realm:
To the hither of the after-ever
And where-ever
Of information in its purest form,
Sensed in electricity
Or a substance
Quite like it.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.

Sympathy For The Sorry Self

I offer sympathy
To the sorry,
Lonely self
Who burned the bridges
To the wider self,
Severing from his larger entity,
To go solo and hurting
With a wound
Of self reducing,
And isolation
In the mind
Restricted from the universe,

That could be his
If only he could recognise
The wideness of his nature’s truth
And Accept his home
Beyond the reaches of his skin.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015.