And jugular contortions.
We've heard it all before,
Complete with conceit,
Tongue-twisted with distortions.
How many nights this week
Have you cried before sleep?
How many months these years
Have you stopped to stifle tears?
Add them up and check the sum,
Then count again before the auditors come.
You know it's nearly over
When the trombones belch and blast.
Then the soprano saxes soar and trill –
More breathy terror than throaty thrill.
Responding seems so useless
But you try a march at the scary score,
Which is just so bloody hard to do
With your feet nailed to the floor.
What romances can you truly seek to begin
When there's no more willing hearts to win?
How does the end of hormonal heavings display -
Pure boredom, or some silly kisses to mark each day?
And yet your weak mind urges new climbs both hard and long -
Like those you scaled when you were still so young and almost strong.
Then the drums rumble to the front of the room –
Bang and bash and kaboom!
There's expectation and longing
And perhaps a chance to resume.
But the horns move back to the fore
And brass sets the tempo just once more.
So you creep to the edge and you cry,
Knowing all that is left can live on if you die.
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