A bitter draught, memories sting
the rough edges of my consiousness
before fading into flame, leaving only remnants
of the hunger which darkess claims as kin

I was born of the sinful indulgence of the end
for an era of decadence, the seventies were finished,
and as herald to my issuance, Lennon was shot,
outside the hotel bearing the name
which was situated likening to my home state

Hers was a marathon, eight hours of anguish
(I believe she never forgave me for this)
which bore the fruits of my awareness,
chock scare of frigid air, and a walloping
start to initiate my weeping wail

That day was one of too many
which I could not envision the tears
she let loose for me, and though
no longer shall they fall for any ends
my obliviousness to them
spells clearly the pthos of my lament