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.
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.