And a grey pall
fell low over my soul
like a clinging fog.
wrapping itself around
concealing a whole city
and its golden gates.
Thoughts wander idly
like drunkards in the park
lost and without direction
or cause.
Or like black-dyed teens
on a sunday afternoon
despondant of trouble or adventure
jaded and dissatisfied.
what is there to gain?
what is there to lose?
Nothing, nothing, nothing
reverberates through my mind.
desires pass and fade
like chain-smoked cigarettes
momentary, brief, bright burn
and then nothing but ash.
Tumbling through life
like a page of yesterday's newspaper
pushed and rolled about by a breeze
on an empty street at 4am.
against whick wall
will I lodge?
lost in what heap
of unwanted, unclaimed refuse?
Or will I be saved?
picked up, recycled
by some kind hand and
sent back into the fray?
To become another newspaper
or, perhaps, writing paper
upon which another lost soul
will write her poor poem.
10-4?-94
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