Ode to the lost

Ode to the lost, I’ve been there before
I refused the bouquet at the banquet door
Trudged the high road, the other way so clever
Worship the mirror, the self, like a child, like an evil fairy tale step mother
Murder the child like faith in magic, in something simple, something more

Talk to fools who have it all figured out at age 30
When you bring them freshly picked blossoms of love
They throw it on the ground and stamp on smiling petals
No eyes to see
Nor ears to hear
Understanding as far as fingertips go
Like one blinded in a fog
The smog of collective and personal history

He’s a coward after all
Too afraid to trudge in the stench, the muck of it
To spend time in the murky swamp and find clarity
In that clearing, in that cleansing you realize
It found you