same old
same old

you could wind the clock back
until the spring broke
and nobody would notice

some people die long before they stop living
and the even-worse converse of this
statement is also true

look through the window and the
imagination insists that
the sky should be alien
and filled with flying saucers

look through a saucer porthole
and the same imagination insists
on replacing spectacular cosmic events
with rustic or pastoral green grass
and tree scene

you can’t win and
shouldn’t try to

too much gold always has the
intrinsic habit of looking in
spectacular bad taste

as vessels go: gold is so much better
at holding blood than wasting its time
on mere water

same old
same old

gold, the metal that does not tarnish, keeps
its luster, resists time

born in the fiery core of a star
pure, yet anything but innocent