tell me, gatsby—I know thee well—
what fate of ours do the stars foretell?
fantasy and reality—wherein do we lie,
thus deceived by passion’s sigh?

oh—but you’ve told me before,
what the world has in store
for those like us who live content
with fancied ideals set in cement

that cursed or blessèd day
when you faded far away
falling further in a pool
while i sat here on a stool

alone and by myself
sequestered on a shelf
stored for someone else to see
my wretched tale of misery