Wednesday, September 26, 2012

The boisterous tunes I previously preferred now sound to me a painful cacophony of adolescent wining, un-educated vocalists and poor lyricists. I am getting older and have aged much in a day. The young fashionable kids and the life of the "scene" hold no lure for me now. I would rather tuck my feet into the sand with my poetry, and let the words of the great modernists wash over me, painting in painful colors my own disillusionment.

Oh I've been deceived by that trickster, the moon. The flash of the lights at night, and the lights in your eyes. I've been drinking deeply of the fountain of promises and coming up dry each time. There is no fountain of youth, and in fact, this liquid is aging me faster than I had hoped. The night freezes my insides like a frost transforms the morning dew, and each outline of a wrinkle reminds me that I still long for that elusive "you". The you I have met and left, or turned over ten thousand times. The you I have forgotten and the you whose name twists into a hundred heads popping out of every street corner.

In 60 years or so (for none of us truly know) I will be on my deathbed, clutching Prufrock's love song to my heart. Soon, and sooner than I wish to admit, wrapped in a miasmal mist, these words will sing me to sleep. And then what great adventure will I meet?
Alas, this final question is the only one of any importance, and the one that I can find the answers for least of all.

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