Reaching for all the Wrong Stars

 
Nenagh is laid with mines,
Sometimes it’s good to get out of Dodge,
Off and reclaim my narrative
To the therapeutic County of Oz.

Lately I’m reaching for all the wrong stars,
The clock strikes the melancholy hour,
Blood aflame, the untethered boat is drifting,
Summer storms promise to devour.

The thought of the drive threatened to defeat me,
Lightening re-inhabits my veins,
The journey to out run my ghosts,
The trip to wash away this year’s stains.

SoI’d better leave before I unravel,
To the solitude where my mind unfurls,
I’m off to see the wizard,
Donegal, Emerald City, Buncrana, the secret pearl.

My restless energies abate,
Donegal cures, Donegal negates,
The dark dreams that were brewing,
Fragile mind cracking, alter ego bruising.

Donegal fills the terrible empty void,
When I feel like a case study written by Freud,
I’m left teetering on the brink of revelation,
I will always be storm, always devastation.

But Nenagh you are my drug,
I will return, I will hug,
Can’t fully cut the cord, blunt knife,
I’d miss you, bristling with the mischief of life.