An erased mute disk stands in my doorway
Wistfully staring me down,
Hunger in its soul-less resolute of charade,
Thunder in the way it pronounced
The words that hang so seemingly in despair
Like a telegram lost halfway
In the change of times
A lost soul, an urchin by the name it goes by…
It has had its time. Time…to say goodbye.
I have had my time,
I have had my chance,
I have had my run
And my cold mary romance…
All that walking and
All that remains
Is the phobic walking
Far away from shuttered plans.
I pause; I breathe a wheeze of black breath,
I wipe my mouth and breathe again…
No noise this time, maybe a silent prayer
To the ghosts of me, shadows in the air.
The spray of pollution still hangs in there…
Like a frozen mile of crossroads to hell.
As I peer through the grime
To the hairpin curve
The urchin of mine
Cannot but laugh away…
In the distance of the portrait of illusions,
It smiles as it stands unmoving…
I take the pen and sign my own name
With the neurotic hand of the old beginnings,
I come back around the black smoke
To my old nerve endings…
Where lost time is but a tunnel
Of inane, blank euphoria!
Where my urchin does fade
Into violins and boxes of molded nostalgia.
And my urchin can be yours
If you promise to keep it good,
If you promise to let it stay...
Happy with its insane solitude.