You yawn at tenets of averageness,
And all those things entail
You scoff at other’s rules to life and
Blaze your own trails.
Ever the contrarian,
But not cause you’re uncouth,
You’re just entwined inside the
Honeymoon of Youth.
... And that magic land,
Windows and clocks do not exist
Time and space are abstract as the
Early morning mist
Not even God can stop Your fun,
You’ll keep going on,
Until it’s done
Until it’s done
Until it’s done.
You traverse the labyrinth
Your ego’s design
Enamored with the ambience of
Blinding neon signs
Dice click-clacks,
Ring-rings of slot machines,
All echo inside of Your dreams
The tickling bubbles of champagne
Combined with lustful exchange
... All apart of greatness,
It seems.
High-rolling lights Your eyes,
Electrifies Your frame,
You’ll never grew cold,
You’ll always play these games.
You’ll always play these games.
... But when the Honeymoon ends,
And everyone else goes back to life and
Reality
As they know it,
How will you feel?
When the lights darken,
Your glass empties,
And everything silences,
What then?
Time and space emerge from the depths of
Etheria,
Everything done comes to fruition,
And the Vain Ocean of
Wealth and
Splendor
High-rollers luxuriated in
Dries,
Yielding nothing further.
Even though your time spent
High-rolling left you
Broken-hearted,
Unfulfilled,
With nothing more than reminiscence,
Glitz and glam of the glory days,
... Still, you
Smile.
Perhaps those moments,
In all their impermanence,
Were worth more to you than
Years of stability.
And nothing
(Not even your own hindsight)
Will change that.
YOU ARE READING
Romantically Incorrect
PoetryBorn, raised, and currently living in Detroit, Michigan, Morgan Coby is a combination of many different things around him: the gritty realities of the city where he dwells, and the wondrous idealism from the fictional worlds of stories, cartoons, an...
