This life wants a poem, the kind that will fly
seen somewhere printed on starry parchment skies
“the ride is never enough!”, Jon lies & cries
desiring a cast of who, what, where, and why
feeling bored & lonely, accosted by no one,
the blues sound good & the drama is fun
it creates a sense of time spinning by the sun,
when all he wants to know is, “when can I be done?”
I attach & detach, transforming through time
a few lines to indulge, enjoyed like cheap wine
when the movie is over, the tape has to rewind
so I roll the credits to see who plays you & I
falling like leaves, this & that go
things dissolve, dispersed to & fro
the curtain is ashes; there is no show
after all is said, who is left to know?
the whole of life is blooming just as a flower
but poor Jon is wilting, he’s dead by the hour!
So weep not for me, for me is a coward
and always cheer for I, because I am power.