Lamentations of a Mal-Adjusted Twenty-Year Old
When the time comes, no one will mourn for me,
No tears will be shed; no one will give a eulogy
There’ll be no one at the wake, no funeral train
Taps will remain unplayed in the pouring rain
There’ll be no elegy, no songs will be written
To celebrate my life in this little corner of heaven
No epitaph to herald my fifteen minutes of fame
Alas! In the end, nobody to propagate my name
When the end comes, there will be torrential rain
But the heavenly tears will not lament my passing
The rain will bleach life’s canvas of this human stain
A worthless life; ‘twas measured and found wanting
When the end comes, I will be as dust in the breeze
Of little use, touching no lives, nurturing no one
A pitiful existence, a locked room with no keys
A dead barren oak tree when all the leaves are gone
What do I have to show for my short earthly stay?
No footprints in the sands of time, no tall obelisks
Never been truly in love, never sent one a bouquet
Too fearful of getting hurt, too timid to take risks
Each one of my tomorrows mirrored the one before
It is an unending string of forgettable happenstance
A symphony with no harmony, a monotonous score
A threadbare tapestry, a lifetime short of romance
I have touched no one; I haven’t composed a song
Never threw a javelin far enough to know I’m strong
No apple has hit my head; I’ve had no inspiration
To unravel mysteries even after much contemplation
I wish I will meet someone, I wish I will fall in love
I wish a fair maiden will appear from the sky above
Then perhaps my life, my dull existence, will blossom
And I can avoid a fate that’s absolutely gruesome
How do I find one I’d want to spend life together?
How do I meet someone if I have none to offer?
Must I accomplish feats of honor before I meet her?
Offer her the world; promise her a day, all of forever?
Perhaps I must spur my heart towards that goal
To warm the marble coldness of my isolated soul
That when the end comes, the birds in the air will sing
Winter’s snow will melt with the coming of spring.
© Vic A Evora