Fools’ Gold. A poem.

The road smouldered as
steel-tread fingers ran over it,
each car an indifferent lover.
Nothing was out of the ordinary
but the extraordinary.

I could no longer look upon you,
the pain too sharp, a constant thorn.
My cannibal hypocrisy consumed me
with self-deception.
One last glance
(you, the diamond amongst coal)
and I drove away into the
hazy mid-afternoon grey.

That was the day.
The day I let my muse fade.
The day I turned from you, away.
I realised dreams were
mirrors and reflections,
untouchable and jaded.

I wanted tears, but an empty
shell holds no water.
No reason to
cry/hope/dream/love.

Melodrama, my cold and
calculating friend, nudging me
awake and laughing at every
stuttered riposte
(all in good natured fun),
smiling in deepest irony.

I typed these words
and let my muse fade.
The clouds let loose their
ill-gotten gains to ply
a sympathetic trade.

Dreams are fools’ gold,
shining brightly.
And without my muse,
all mere deception.

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