Whether you saturate yourself with words

or carve your body with roses

the tempest, is the brooding weather

that tells of a sea, safe to cross

close friends are close

because they share life, together

but the lion’s hunt, is the lion’s prize

and each man is an island, unto himself

mysterious, and worth exploring

when that island

does not need land bridges.

Women are the prize

And no man can share his trophy

or his skill at the gun, with another

giving away scraps, is a game, men play with each other

it’s a woman’s game, most men play today

where everyone cheats, and none can get enough

we don’t enjoy, what we don’t win

If I were to throw a party

and invite the gentlemen gentry, and ladies that sparkle in the night

like stars

waiting to be plucked from the heavens

could I contain the universe

presiding over my creation

like God

or would it be, like a big bang

a hook-up scene, where alcohol and fornication flowed down the stairs

like addiction dreams

sweet excess, without thorns or stingers

I could abandon desire


give up, on a younger man’s game

so memories, never created, never haunt me

hanging on the walls

like mounted photographs, of my best love.

Frustration, at ill-conceived costumes

and poorly crafted conversations

bad haircuts

and scuffed shoes

for this courtship of love, that compares itself

to the Pride

a test, to choose

a gamble, to settle

quit, while you’re still ahead

but I don’t want to cash in, for a hand I don’t want

I look at my hand

Arthritic pain, from holding, is more tempting

than each finger, encased, with gold rings

all the flowers, will fade

My pain, will remain the same,

holding my cards, and never choosing

waiting, for that perfect straight of luck

belonging to me, and only me

I’m not meant for this world

it’s so cheap

and traded

like musical chairs

Why sit down when the music stops?

Yet, I want the throne

I want to be King

I just don’t want to be a competing commoner

I’m not special, I know it

I just wish the rules of the game were different

I wish we could all be happy

I wish it wasn’t ugly.

2 thoughts on “When the Music Stops

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