Nothing Gets Old, Yet A Story Must Be Told.
Aces up your sleeve, the room is getting cold.
Poker-face your mirrors, or sit back & fold.
Lo and behold,
We’re here again,
That familiar place.
Where the lines
Between life, pain,
And high-performance,
General-purpose Storytelling
Are all but blurred out.
Where you seek
Once again,
A dirty hit of
Leather-wrapped,
Caramel-coated,
Prescience
In that grand old alleyway
Of flickering lights
And hopes & dreams
Of bloodlust and stardust.
Yeah no that’s
Not creepy at all, mate.
The important thing
To remember as you
Stare at the clock
Ahead of you,
Behind you,
Always chasing you,
Is that it may very well
Be your clock
Or not your clock,
But you will never
Ever belong to it
The way it belongs
To you.
The same might
Be said of unfulfilled
Romances,
Warts and all.
Of fiery tales
Soaked in the revelry
Of well-meaning
Friends & Foes,
Bites & Woes,
Toes and all.
You plus you
And mirror makes four.
Tigers up the staircase,
Petals on the floor.
Oops there goes
The northern breeze,
Or so they’d have you know,
But you sit & breathe
And do as you please,
What once was, must go.
