Over the Fulham Road, forward into oblivion we travel
As if on a journey that has no ending and no beginning we
Might comprehend, that tastes similar to apples
Gnashed in our insatiable youth.
A slight tingle on our tongues reminds us there is a way out,
To escape through the crowds and hedgerows,
Relieving us momentarily of our solitudes, loneliness
And the inevitable crush of Time.
To believe that night will arrive
And we will have moved on toward another level of exchange,
Changing us in a moment with the clamor of a cantankerous bell.
Then to settle into the melodious sound a wave makes,
To become a grain of sand, to become one with the strategems and
Paradigms
That control the universe with one hand.
When we reach our destinations, that is another way of disembarking,
We will have been here an instant, long enough to brood over our brevity,
Then the moon shall beckon us to dance,
Call us by name and breathe in the tenders of hollyhock and heather;
A love with a laurel and a streamer will likely appear,
An apparition of a gilded age when we were young, unfettered
By the world, and Fulham Road will be just another marshland again.
Children with large lozenge-like eyes will play there among our ashes,
Then we will be gone, truly gone.