Dave's Mental Meanderings
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2004-12-11 17:45:09 (UTC)

Poem - "Memories on Vinyl"

The circular song of the cyclical sun
Of the green in between the darkness,
It’s reaching a suddenly sullen crescendo
As down goes the daylight’s carcass.
There’s no cause for regret for this elegy frets
For the death of none but an era,
But now gone with its passing is a joy everlasting
Like sweet visions of Johanna and Sara.
The paradoxical nature of promises
Sworn to an innocent star,
They may last one forever and yet firmly dissever
When again it shines from afar.
For what is forever but that which is bound
By inexorable ends as defined,
Beginning with birth, made whole just to march
To death at the end of the line.
As I stare with my pair of hardened red eyes
At the sky that will soon flood with pink,
I wonder just why I once welcomed the wind
That will soon blow me over the brink.
My head swims in doubt and I can’t figure out
My purposeful stride to the edge,
The red setting sun I might gladly now shun
Along with the view from the ledge.
The angle of light, besides blinding my sight,
Serves also to highlight the cracks,
The jagged topography of my autobiography,
The weird shadows where indecision attacks.
These grand golden rays make a gossamer haze
Of my fickle fixation so final,
But the fat’s in the fire and it crackles and spits
Like the playback of memories on vinyl.
No crisp high fidelity could inspire incredulity
As to the source by the one who dares listen,
No studio edited production is credited
As the angel by whose voice he was christened.
Though yesterday’s story of fortune and glory
Is summoned with the hand’s slightest move,
This time around, where once you were found,
The needle is now down in the groove.
Just like the flare-ups of golden age eras
With the ebb and flow of forevers,
The vinyl valley cuts a circular alley
Despite its most noble endeavors.
So I’m left scant decision, mere petty precision,
In the matter of the dusk I’m now facing,
Having squandered my powers in my finest of hours,
The past is not mine for erasing.
I must wait for a cue from that one among few,
An angel of life-breathing charms,
To this downright damnable son of a bitch,
Without fail she extended her arms.
I’ve little to do ‘neath the final pale blue
Of the western sky’s autumn shrug,
Except sweep up some dirt, though at sight my heart hurts,
Instead of kicking it under the rug.
Another trench formed where throughout the next storm
My last chapter will hide from the din,
Another sun soon will dry up the monsoon
And I’ll be back in the high life again.

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