Around the time he read the line;
“But time stands still for Roland
‘Til he evens up the score.”
It dawned on Drew that there was nothing new
about his frantic rose red scribblings.
They were just lyrics from a song
he dimly remembered his father playing
on the family’s old battered guitar,
back when he was a kid
of no more than five or six.
But why had his chemical Muse
dredged that particular memory up
from his soupy subconscious,
and at this particular moment in time?
It couldn’t be the —
No. It couldn’t be.
Drew rotely finished the prayers
for the closing of the Temple
and extinguished the lamp
set before the crude wooden idol of Dasyllios,
casting everything in utter darkness.
His head was still wooshy
as he backed out of the sacred space,
hastily removed his linen robe,
ivy crown, and priestly jewelry,
then crashed on the couch,
making a concerted effort not to throw up
as he rode out the rest of the high
and tried not to think about
what it couldn’t be.