On The Transience and Vanity of Being A Writer

He wanted what he wrote to shine…

He let imagination play
And spill across each fevered page;
Of life spent at a breakneck pace,
Of love and hate and
Sex and rage

And peaceful moments that would touch
The hearts of any who might see;
But wonders now, and over-much,
If all of it’s
Not vanity

He wanted what he wrote to shine,
The brilliance of a million suns;
But now, he simply wants to write
Some thoughts that you’d read
More than once

The Pinnacle

For truly base profanity
Behold now human vanity:
You set your stall
To know it all —
It’s nothing but insanity

You seek to teach sagacity
Far past your poor capacity;
And so the young
Are therefore hung
By daft obscene audacity

You should then be more circumspect
In viewing things in retrospect;
If house and hall
Should start to fall
You might have been
The architect

When The Old Things Don’t Work Anymore

… it’s a sad day, indeed

The old jokes do not make him laugh
The old dress doesn’t make him look
The old him was all into her
The lapse of time was all it took

The vanity she entertained
The love she thought forever true
The hollowness we come to see
In who we are
And what
We do

So Familiar

So Familiar

A life led by blind desire,
Lurching toward the funeral pyre

Happenstance spun into meaning,
Private times spent posing, preening

Strings of words on worthless air,
Tableaus struck with no one there

Emptiness and vanity,
Sheltered by insanity

Carved from cells once formed by bliss:

So familiar

All of this

Life at the Speed of Time

Somebody sped up time.

Converted Train Car - Abandoned

The station full, and I was young
And then somebody sped up time:
The years whirled by and now I’m here
Alone and in a desert. I’m

Surprised at how the years have flown
And how the glory I had known
Could be reduced to scrap and rust,
And affluence decay
To dust

How desolate this spot is now…

How desolate this spot is now.
I walk around the emptiness –
What once was meant as life support
Lies dead among the quietness
 
And as the summer shadows move,
I hear the evening start its song;
The sun is headed home to rest,
And I should head home too,
Ere long

= = = = =

(I actually took this photo, which is a rarity. – Owen)