(for l.b., seemingly yet to surface)
a time comes when the past is no longer within reach,
as the vertigo of now, the maze of political adventure,
threatens to turn every happy ending into an endless hall of mirrors,
a drunken creature lies, spasmodic, bemused, exhausted.
so despite the odd call for euphoria,
despite the parade of remorseful angels, guilt firmly entrenched in way too many side glances
all that remains is our tortuous need for oblivion.
all that remains is a private celebration of lost time,
a hunger for time yet to be wasted.