At the Feast of the Century

It was the most splendid time.

We wore our best costumes and

Drank vino into the

Latest, most unfathomable

Hours of the night,

Swapping our stories

And our lives.

God was there,

Because He’s everywhere,

But He refused the wine

And Apollo rejected the invitation,

So we wrote our own poetry,

While Whitman helped us

With the verses.

Paul arrived late,

But we forgave him because

He sangย Hey Jude

Until tears streamed down our faces

And we leaned each onto the other,

Hiccuping on the wine

And the sorrow.

Then the eagles came

To tell us of a hotel

Where we might stay the night,

So we all packed our bags

And arrived in the foyer

And now we

Never leave,

Because the feast of the century

Was in fact a

Feast of the Dead,

And now I have

Nightmares and

Ghosts and hear

Hell in my

Sleep.

 

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7 thoughts on “At the Feast of the Century

  1. I was reading along happily, then hit the wall, fell off the cliff – hell in my sleep. Not a criticism, just an observation. Too quick of a direction change for my lumbering emotions. ๐Ÿ™‚

    1. Hmm, perhaps so… I must admit, I don’t like this one very much – it was the result of forced inspiration but I’m glad I riled up your emotions a bit ๐Ÿ˜‰ That is the duty of a poet, after all.

  2. Emotions duly riled up with this one. ๐Ÿ™‚ What a lovely feast and all the company. Didn’t mind having the rug yanked at all. Lovely transition. So much is not at all as with think.

Thoughts? I love those.

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