Intimations of Mortality at the Disco

I've seen my share of grayness. You don't know.
You're young. You've grown up here, but, look,
The lines attack your face. The fun I hoped
To have with you has been diminished. Dear,
Despite your youth, already you grow old.
We hesitate beside the floor. We have our
Drinks, one must have drinks, to see if we
Can gain momentum, plunging through
The crowd to dance, as those your age are
Wont to do, but I am, what?, four decades
On, and tied by tendrils you are only now
Discerning. Hence the lines. The party
Ended back in school, and, now, just as
The bills are due, you clutch my sleeve.
You say you're sorry. Don't. You have a life
To live, and, as it goes to grayness, as mine
Has, and as I shuffle, aged, toward the door,
And back into the silent crypt I call my home,
I have to tell you, fight the lines, and clutch the
Color that remains. You have to turn away, and I,
Who'd hoped to live through you, must go on
On my own toward a hole upon a hill, which
Has a plaque which bears my name. Your time
Is short. You'll soon be me. Be free of me
For now, and take the floor with one who's
Young as you, and jump the lines.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 21 times
Written on 2012-02-18 at 18:44

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