Drycicles

I have found a name for my chronic dysphoria

That prevents me from engaging in creative delusion

At my trial, if I’m culpable of any

Crime

Just cite me, I suffer from a thymic

Contusion.

I have hit my two ganglia with the rock and the

Stone

When I’m gone, they will say

I was athymhormic

The dorm in the dormic

In the Dormicum

Day.

If you search for my diagnosis

Please observe my prognosis

Is poor

And this disorder marked by a lack

of Motivation

Will perhaps prove to be a Divine

Intervention.

A time, of thyme, of dysthymic

Harmonia

Blessed by

Athymhormia.

Dance with me Garam

Masala

Opium poppies and

Sofran

Bake my hopes and Wishes

Slowly

In this year that’s just

Begun.

Breathe with me Garam

Masala

Spicy cumin ginger eyes

As time flies we’ll wish

A memory

Tikka takka shards of

Savory

Tashuan recall of spice.

Hocus-pocus cayenne pepper

And black powder dark and sweet

On the spicy road we’ll meet

Dancing the corrals of gold.

Get me drunk, Garam Masala

And I’ll sing your tale of

Old.

Come wind, caress the halls

Inside the tower

Of our

Souls

Come rain, wash the days

Of this last month

In this last year

We have lain before you.

We’ll whistle the tune together

We’ll stare in wonder below

At the freshly adorned coat of snow

Sky whenever.

I still don’t know how to build

a Carillion

And have counted for ages

the Millions

of fibres of silk

In a tune yet unsung, for tomorrow

I will touch the clavier

Of my being

From this tower in Utrecht

I am blessed that we got to

Seeing

the World

Together,

Dad.