manuel of la brea

39

playing the second fiddle

all my thoughts have gone lately.
facing the music after playing
the second fiddle to reality,
now i’ve stopped daydreaming.

i didn’t know that there would be
a swan song after an interlude.
you’d hear me cry of magnitude
trembled, covered by dust and debris.

concealed pain in a senseless sleep,
nothing remains but a broken record.
all chin talks we thought were deep—
only three bags full, a sheep to behold.

when you sang goodbye, i cried
with hollow voices, all were rubbish.
my tears never dried, never got tired.
the nursery rhymes were unfinished.