Dream Date

In the end, the future never comes,
The years of toil take their toll.
That happiness was once becomes
A thought divorced from memory,
And all there is is getting by.
The mortgage must be paid each
Month. The meals must be
Prepared, the laundry done,
The sinks and toilets cleaned,
And simply staying conscious
Proves a duty that goes unrewarded.
Death, the tart, is dressed
(To kill?), with glossy lips
And shadowed eyes. She
Writhes within her slinky
Garment, beckoning. You
Ought to go. The wide horizon
You once watched has narrowed
To a tiny hole, and she's beside
It, whispering, “The future never
Comes.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 50 times
Written on 2014-11-05 at 01:00

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