At the end of the Tether
when we stop
feigning stardom
rock'n'roll convictions
martyrdom and messianic arrival
settle for the relative ignomy of the Pen
accept Werther in our hearts
and laugh merrily at the tragicomedy of adulthood calf love
each in his own time
late or early in bloom and wilting
an old soul, a young heart, a teenage face
unmarred by either wedded soul or pockmarks of injustice
there we find Hope, her pale lips and kaleidoscope eyes grinning mischeviously in recognition
"Here I was almost thinking you had lost your way."