There’s always an amusement park
at the end of the line
Where the sewer of dreams
has run dry;
Each stop is more hopeless
as more time passes by,
And the last extras peel
away from your screen test
Where you would tell the little of the story
you can handle
(The story we all know so well
we think we own the rights to the sequel).
You kill yourself thinking
there’s something you can’t give away,
How if you knew what it was
It’d be no longer yours
And maybe you’d be lighter
someday
And could plant your banner
at the end of the pier
Like some phantasm
cool, dark and pure,
Lurking, turned heartless
from heartbroken.
The sound of money and gimcracks
and junior high proms
Echoes so sadly, like the lights
that won’t stop
Disappearing, and crying
through the gear-restless night.
On some moonless Sundays
you can still hear the ghost
Of the dance hall waltz
in the arms of the wind
Like the story is writing
itself.
