My Friend RT

A dear friend

My friend RT

he’s an arty sort.

Sort of.

Mixes business with pleasure

Wine and fire in a petri-dish.

He looks mean, lean

Got his foot on the gas of a creation machine

pumping his wares

flooding his thoughts

and his days with dreams of maybe.

He is grounded, adrift on a sea of consciousness

that has no name,

he lies with Sam - a beautiful boy

resurrected from childhood

rescued from the lions.

Together they dance the impossible

tease the improbable

while the world burns, turns and shrugs.

He is bold, yet spineless.

Never good enough,

locked away in the prison of his silent glory

Tempered by the fiddly mechanics of society

Living a waking dream

Sleeping in sequels.

He has equals, unknown to each other,

each sailing under their inner dome,

searching for home

among the crying, reaching hands.