2040

2040

Sipping peppermint laced tea,
At the corner of the Umericas.
An odd kid recollected fusion
in his brain of the bygone.
Mother once told of him the Rock star,
the magician, the pro poker player,
Dumprey Bogart, Jonathan Wayne,
the heartthrob of Baileywood.

The boy sat and looked at his hand,
My god, what a magnificent sight!
He would play the violin or more,
Perhaps at the street corner,
Perhaps at Carnegie Hall,
his tender fingers skip and dance
across a finely tuned zebra road,
and thousands cheer.
Chopin, Beethoven, Mozart,
Mendelssohn, Vivaldi,
the last true diplomats of our time.

The odd kid took another sip of tea,
glaring again into his hand.
It is now wrinkled and desolate.
But he doesn’t jump,
because one has taken enough walks alone,
to know how real nothing is.

Burnout,
How every citizen’s dream,
they would all meet a common fate.
Ever to be outlasted,
not by the mind,
perhaps some slowly by time,
but mostly by circumstances beyond.

The 2040 wishes to be some utopia,
when the boy was just a boy.
But there is something terribly wrong,
The cars don’t fly,
man is still stuck on the moon,
cough and hack on the streets,
countless cadavers lay,
the skyscrapers vacantly lit.
The serfs till the fields for their lord.

Somebody left that dream a long time ago,
the old man now just wishes to be that odd kid.
Because one has taken enough walks alone,
to know how real nothing is.