So...here's another poem about being upset about ends of eras and shit. Alright, alright, I know! I keep going on about it, and I'm sorry. I'm just using poetry to purge, k? When it's all over, we'll all be better people for it and we'll have a right old knees up, drinks on me*, right? (*I'm not buying anyone any drinks. I'll be having all of the drinks. All of them.)
Oh, and ST PATRICK'S DAY, isn't it? Yes, that.
Day 32...
Grand Canyon
So
you took a melon baller to my faculties
and
scooped them clean out of me.
I
just thought we were getting ready for a party,
but
the empty skin that is left of me
doesn’t
really feel like dancing.
It’s
hard to pinpoint
the
exact moment of ending.
There
was no swell of music,
no
credits, no spongy clouds of popcorn
stuck
to the soles of our shoes.
They
say the Grand Canyon
was
just a hairline crack once;
that
the earth saw it getting bigger,
while
the sky blindly tried to fill the gap.
I
guess you could say the earth is a secretive asshole,
but
where’s the use in that now?
That
old canyon serves its purpose.
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