lilac on a fresh dug grave

as a child
it seemed like
life would be
a series of
sprawling trips
ancient ruins
as a teen
it seemed like
life would be
a series of
love letters
perfumed odes
of secret trysts
and declarations
as an adult
it seems that
life has become
a series of
eviction notices
from the womb
all the way
to death itself

he tries to
artfully scribble
something between
childhood and
traumatic teen
while dodging
every errant notice
taped to doorways
barring vacant hearts
and houses of worship
spinning yarn
from golden hay
a bumbling fool
unable to tell
if he is dancing
or convulsing
leaving a trail
of empty verse
and broken dream
seeking an answer
to where and how
time has sped
from beginning
to unhappy ending
his life a ruin
as the perfume hangs
like lilac upon
a fresh dug grave

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