There is no man behind the curtain,
no diamond in the rough.
The X doesn’t mark the spot, only sand
tossed by the Lake Michigan’s waves.
The shooting star has long ago fallen
so turn round back on the road
paved in hope of asphalt
to chase this spinster’s sorrows.
I see him there, behind smoke and screens,
glamour and half truths
and a curtain to reveal
an empty space, unyielding to this stranger.
But, beneath it’s lofty folds
the curtain has shaken loose its bindings
to expose a man; just a man
who does not exist.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment