A Musical Fulcrum

I might be sentenced to a lifetime of gathering dust,
This ancient headache might stick to my head like ancient rust,
I may never act again, but I know that the show must

Go on

The unsteady and unwell musical fulcrum tilted,
The titling tatter of totalitarian senses jilted,
Miserly over me their residual river silted

Then went on

Darkness punch-holed it’s way through the light,
Powdering the visible over the pondering bright,
Yet I let my day dream continue despite

The dream was gone

In an unsteady dilemma in the malodorous telephone booth,
Or maybe over the melodramatic fountain of almost eternal youth,
I bechanced upon the almost bearable truth

That I didn‘t live anymore.



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