A Play For The Last

Standing straight on a plateau, 

Overlooking an arch by the meadow,

Gazing into streams of pinwheels, 

Overshadowed like the ghosts of vinyls; 

Into the ether remain no cause, 

Drifting afar the path to rose, 

Like the gardens bestowed,

Un-fateful course, 

The nemesis of our hours protests, 

In our dignity we must remain so fresh.

 

A starlight shining from the moon so far, 

My tears of winter come from the lunar so near;

In the dreams of our forgotten ashes remain blissful: 

Not one person to hear our grumbles at last,

Call this play an act of extravagance. 

 

 

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This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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