Now All That is Left is Me

It is me ... kind of, sort of me,
occupying space where I’m meant to be,
lying on the branch of a gumyum tree,
answering questions I cannot really see.
But not me, actually, not in a sense,
putting on the cloth and making a pretence,
brain wrapped in cotton, peering through a fence,
coming over dazzled, nebulous and dense.
My body then? Could be, I don’t rightly know,
recognise the scars - well, those out on show,
the stuffing knocked out like lumps in a dough,
and all those blurry edges between yes and no.
My face then? Smiling through my pain.
Manners, I suppose, run deeper than the grain,
"sorry for the trouble, I’m perfect in the main".
Grin and bear, hooded stare, convince them all I’m sane.
Yesterday - was it? - you went and lost control,
someone offered death, you blithely rushed in to enrol,
never mind the left-behind, you take care of your soul,
tomorrow I will find a way to climb out of this hole.
Hey! Damn you! (pardon me, I’m doing it again)
I haven’t got the wherewithal to mourn for selfish men,
seems to me the Reaper’s sword was mightier than the pen,
still I would have fought your fight, if you’d said where and when.