With the exaggerated care

Of the weary

Placing the used up

Snakeskin of the year

On the bonfire of his vanity

He stepped back.


He watched the fickle,

Trickle of his dreams,

Rise insubstantive and insubstantial

On the fluttering moth wings of hope

And with his heart

He blew a farewell kiss.


In the dark winter night

The orange red flame

Consumed the essence

Nurtured and garnered

In all his deeds.


On the field of Gold,

The banners lay

And the mandolins

Sung of battles won

And of battles lost.


From the desert swell

He carried that cup

And as he held it high

He spilled that last

Vital drop.


In the silent

Crystal night,

The echo of his

Words rang out

Their haunting melancholy ring

Into the absent wood.


Feeling now that aching

Arching no-thing

Of his soul

He stroked the egg shell cavern

Of his ping pong



And in the once resplendent

Halls of his dream

He found the comforting

Emptiness of

Being fully spent.


And now

He reached down

To find that fragile

Seed of the new.


And to plant it

Once more upon the


Landscape of his dream.

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