it’s a private party
in the memory
of constant rewinds.
no need to worry
that you are alone
in the spectrum of colors.
the hand stripped of touch,
but to qualify,
you’ve got to get down on your knees
and keep listening
to terry jacks, “seasons in the sun”
of a lonely old man
re-incarnated into when you were born,
carrying on in the seasons
where god only knew
the reason behind
you were left so far out of tune
to justify it’s about life’s
learning curves
when looking up into the sun
and knowing it takes a lot of those rays
to find the balance
in lonely times,
when she realized
transformations are deeper
and more meaningful
all in this life
to throw a party
to be the king
with her as queen,
as if in the prom’s court
on some football field
to finally see
what happened before half-time
was just a playbook
learning new routes that got her attention.

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