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THE TALE OF A WASTELAND

April 13, 2018

And with a weak voice he swears,

He closes the window to the world.

For there’s no time left,

Not for those of his kind.

And his kind pops pills nightly,

To sleep, etc, and come morning ….

Agony. His love: dead at twenty one,

Her funeral: not a soul ….

There was one: most invisible,

He remembers her best in a white scarf:

Loosely wrapped, over her left shoulder,

A brunette. Small features. Never a smile.

For her, smile’s aren’t called for,

A modern look on an anciently deceased love.

 

His only love: ravaged by alcohol,

Abuse, some say. He just had a taste for it.

We’ll relive it all through him,

We did for some time. Now he’s gone.

Gladly, he reflected on his death bed,

And his reflections were positive.

But seeing him bloated and aged was hard,

And had he died at twenty one, of an overdose?

We wouldn’t have thought of him, ever,

But, he lived out a lifetime: he forgets much ….

The alcohol, and such. Don’t argue over your flaws,

Even if one lost his place for the same crime.

 

She’s my age: I appear far more aged,

When her first love wed, she watched

From afar. There was nothing else to do:

First loves die hard, as her first love knew.

We never forget first loves,

We would have been most content with first loves.

Even if it’s clear that we’re lying to ourselves,

We never could have borne this love’s life.

Babies and all. Horrendous friendships,

Idiots are his friends. They drink and drink

To forget the grind. Unlike some who

Drink for it covers holes in pleasure.

 

She, blonde. Quite a beauty,

Now, methamphetamines have spoiled her.

She fails to appear in court,

She forgets when she’s expected

Her blonde hair against bright lights,

She always stood out greatly.

Now, she’s a lowly cretin,

It seems we feel little sympathy for her.

She did little wrong, not in her world,

What a ravaged beauty. Do you

Still do what you did so well?

Playing second fiddle, taking the spotlight.

 

She, briefly in the sun,

It was a strange time.

You achieved little

Striking out alone.

But we still herald this,

At the expense of your compatriot

Former. He’s done less, it’s true,

But who led whom in halcyon days?

There was much to say for these days,

Much far from ideal: it was idyllic.

You would take those days back, I know,

But you were always the victim

In your mind. You brought all the troubles,

It’s time to reassess, one feels.

 

Twenty, thirty, forty …. years (!),

It’s time to let it go, we could say.

Maybe he’s aloof; maybe he knows,

It’s you who takes an ignorant air.

Move on, not with a younger man

Who’ll die before you: tragic.

You’re a curse to those who’ve known you,

Maybe he called: nostalgia’s a great thing.

Now, forget that call. Forget that hotel suite,

He thinks not of you, not anymore.

Times were had, a blue moon ago,

Live in the moment, dear one.

Your memories do little for you,

Forget: it’s always for the best.

 

She was poor, walking the streets,

She had a small nook

In a big city: three friends

By her side. Soon, she found ‘fame’.

As much as anyone’s ever ‘famous’,

Yes: we read the least known texts first.

The city was classical in your day,

Sometimes, you broke down here.

Hence, you had a country retreat,

Much as she in the white scarf.

Both found dead in these retreats,

Your deaths came, hence, in peace.

Don’t worry: I’m still here,

In your home, big city, at peace.

 

In another part of town,

Always singing for your life.

Your destiny: you found it,

By chance, you found it.

Now, you’re known by all,

And a long time deceased.

As are all, at length,

Some propose you as historic.

You’re little more than one

Who found a niche.

And stayed there, in much peace.

But, we all need our niche after all,

Small in stature, a rather loud voice,

Raucous. We’ve all seen you in film.

 

Little of poetic merit here,

A reminiscence on all that’s right and wrong.

And all’s wrong when we stare at faces,

Unsmiling, for there is little that brings joy.

A fringe covering the eyes, hard features,

Surprisingly soft features, wrapped in a scarf.

Drawn on, thin eyebrows,

Now grey, short hair.

Then long, straight, dark hair,

All changes with time.

If it’s allowed to change,

Little changes in twenty one years.

One searched out another for immortality,

But, one is never immortal.

Tastes change. All falls to waste,

And this, this is the tale of a wasteland.

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