Desolation
Served at Seven
It is always in the eyes - that is the tell;
there is the callow innocence expressing joy
or the stale darkened blank stare from hell
perhaps, averting eyes darting between purposeful ploy
then again, there are eyes that are desirous and cunning
tracking and playing off a heart that is coveting
Harry, had neither of these looks today as he waited
in a languished posture by the exit of his tortured life
as patrons of the house with course of seven sated
brushed by him without noticing he was rife
with remorse and weighted by mental exhaustion
given that his soul was listed on the menu as “done in Faustian”
The moniker, Harry, was perfect for such was he - a
common man;
that he once owned the streets of the dancing double
crosses
where truth was merely a matter of setting a profit plan
was of little note now that the gold leaf buildings were
total losses
consumed by the greed and avarice that poured like fine
wine
to fill the stemmed glasses with wantonness and to toast the
lusted shrine
“Hello Harry, it is good to see you after all these years
where have you been – what happened to you – why”
There could have been many reasons with stories full of
tears
but, Harry never did explain his turn in place nor did he
cry
only that he now lived where desolation was served at
seven
and drinks followed into the night before the closing of
heaven.
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