overview

But what is there to lament.
So we loved. and they turned out as expected.

We grew mistletoes on sycamores over
graves of loyalty that we had dug

even as we commiserated.

We stole furtive kisses. And castigated infidels.

So we missed the midnight shower
cooped up in an air conditioned room
surfing the net envying holidays others could afford.
We slept in. and chose the reality of books.

 
We laughed. and got mad
And never spoke again to best friends.
We cried. and got mad
And never talked of ourselves again.
We left time to its machinations.
We danced in the solitude of summers
Bathed in our inadequacies.
And sat under invisible winter moons
listening to vinyl records.

We made light of our losses.
and spent days not getting out of bed.
We pretended. We pretended to pretend.
We fell for fallen heroes.
We fell. We made excuses.
We took the high road
and found ourselves in shifty back alleys.
We let fear overcome necessary action
and courageously backed bad decisions.

We nailed hypocrisy.
We choked on our own morality.
We traded old friends for random acquaintances
we met in shady places.
We made our own gods and then desecrated them.
We blamed others.

We travelled with blinders.
We sat eavesdropping on other conversations.
We lied about ourselves. To ourselves.
We bought the dagger and played victims.
We preached what we were too lazy to practice.
We followed rules. We made exceptions.

We did much. We did nothing.
For all that
What is there to lament.

It is what it is.