four forty-five

i know you may never understand this regret
but recognize only this, death will be mine,
and yes, this mad hatters tea party rejoice
as a loving mother serenely, silently weeps
crying crocodile tears before your eyes.

will someone be inclined to say a prayer
when i saunter sadly along this dreary path.
for time is of no concern at this late hour
as i reflect upon my passing sojourn………
spent well or wasted upon hollow dreams.

caught up in this officious opening night opera,
chasing fame and fortune with the fervour of a
four forty-five drunk about to face his demons,
demanding one last call for drinks my friends,
and expectant of one final call for forgiveness.

existence pounding in time with my heavy heart
as this flagging spirit craves one last thrill,
an inspiration to outshine the Mona Lisa’s smile
my sweet painted lady hiding in life’s voids,
painstakingly framed and frozen by hessian

will my lady be there when i require reflection
staring at death on a cold night at four forty-five.


greg