Anathema, 2004

Lalala, a poem, a song,
another nothing along.
Lalala, to fret, hours,
forget away goes by the stage;
about despair that steals the air,
an elm tree eulogy,
phoned in an hour late.
The roots are gone, the hours gone,
no one is there to see.

Man and child both cold mild,
a seaside screaming both go round,
the glowing, the jazz like sounds,
thena, anathe,
it all goes by and once done dies,
unlike the urn-like sea,
around and around, fury sound,
of the screaming city.

Lalala, another song,
another dying sing along,
whose pages grey at ends and fray;
lalala, another frets,
wasted hours to beget,
away the hour on the stage,
that one might smile, to turn the page—
how free is a man in jail,
outside the jailbird sings,
his solitude now empty.
Outside looking through the bars,
whose drab grey rust blots out the stars—
of the screaming city.

Lalala, another verse of song,
with the vain hope you’ll sing along.
La, la sings the man, who frets,
his brief hour on the screen.
Waiting he with reserved glee,
that you if not somehow blue
intrigued might turn the page,
so if it matters, once again,
another free man dies imprisoned;
outside the jailbird sing,
outside looking in through bars,
which have at long last kill the stars.
When our hours, oh how brief,
are tradition of the day,
often read or watched instead,
moments go and go,
and seethe,
and the sun rise says repeat.

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