The Three Ages of Awakening
Take my innocence on a tuppenny bus ride,
Show it the breeze and the night.
Pay its fare, sit it at the front,
And answer all those silly little questions,
It is wont to ask.
Throw my pasty faced incredulity,
And watch it drift like ash over the waiting queues.
Let it go, wave it goodbye,
And don’t let a soul ever tell you,
The journey was wasted.
Wrap my wounded love in oilcloth,
And put it back in the box.
It’ll squeak a bit,
May well fall off.
As you condescendingly gaze at its foolishness,
Once, it was real.
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