Beautiful women only talk to me
when they need something.
I walk alone
Cloaked in a shroud of faded shadows
Down a lane that bears my name
To the sound of distant drums
Recorded long ago
And I sense no fire in this purpose
Nothing smolders in the long night
As a routine established
Is followed to its final, cold conclusion
Frozen in the winter soil
Or blown to cinders on the icy winds
That scream unending
O'er these desolate plains
As the final vestiges of what it was
Wink out
Like dead stars in the black firmament
Better luck next time.