A coming of age a rite of passage
To write in remembrance to commemorate
I’m not mourning and yet I may still
For what I have done to that old tired beast.
I’ve slaughtered it, humanely,
in the name of expression.
Stood there in the limelight only the darkness to see
But like oft has been mentioned, I felt them, faceless, expectant,
and when I sat down swaddled in the spotlight
I sat down with the weight of their individual silence,
Each of them protruding through the inky veil,
To sit beside me on the sack cloth coughing:
This is poetry, culture – steak after all,
And I played my part tonight.
And I come away less vilified than deified,
Though the truth, I know, lies somewhere in between.
I shake the remnants of a beer from its hiding place,
hunting it down with my greed,
And allow that though momentarily I was sophisticated,
I am, in the end, Still me.
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