Too bad, i think, that, as we age, we
gradually move away from each other,
winding up, mostly, alone; then, to be,
we dream of the world that we once were—
hoping, at last, to be reunited,
knowing, nonetheless, that it’s an idea
that goes with us once we’re dead,
freed, finally, from this mortal diva,
and yet, somehow, not wanting to go.
Friends exist few and far between—
there’s nothing, then, that we don’t know,
nothing we care about, nothing to glean.
Family enter the rat race—finding work
wherever they can, a job, we hope,
that keeps them from becoming a jerk,
beaten down by the cruelty that we dope
when, for starters, we aim to sleep it off.
Perhaps i’ll wake up in a different light,
minus the fears that ghosts would scoff,
people that serve, to me, as a blight,
drowning in the hate they appreciate
when it distinguishes them from Him.
I never found a suitable mate,
so i get to the end, and face what’s grim,
a little sooner than the world i lost,
when, as a product of my birth, i turned
inward for answers, no matter the cost.
Now the life, a little, leaves me burned,
no past to relive, no future to earn.
So, i say, for now, i’m a little sad,
to think i’ll forget, one day, what i learn,
and never use it, not even a tad,
when it comes, that is, to another,
and the life that we, to boot, never had,
unable to rely on each other,
forced, by circumstances, to be glad
of all the crumbs our life would collect—
now at an end, when we’d give up the ghost,
and settle on the thoughts we protect,
nevermore to play the happy host,
smitten, once, by ambition and greed.
Too bad, i think, and too true, we come
full circle, helpless, an object of need,
that will not amount to a tidy sum—
at least not one that does us any good.
So i force my way to futures unseen,
knowing that, though i do as i should,
my country remains ruthless and mean,
a place that, in my lifetime, cannot exist,
and so, i ask, am i foolish to insist—
if i should project a life that would persist—
and reward me, then, with what i missed?