The death of the festive
The birth of the mundane
No wide open road anymore
Get back in your lane
The gears have ground down
They now hardly catch
The ******* door
Bangs loud in the wind
The ******* just won't latch
I crossed the sweet tilted field
Where we once made love
It's all dog muck and empty used condoms now
No moonlight bathes from above
We're become the elders at functions
And the mood is low
When we where the youth
All hearts were aglow
We buried our parents
And now start in with our friends
Warmly reminisce at funerals
But it's only pretend
As the clock ticks down
I know of that which I speak
The sickness in the future
Is unremittingly bleak.