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What are you waiting for?
I'm a metaphor for a ballad of sour notes.
The all seeing lidless eye in a sandstorm.
A spark in a match factory.
Muscle pain on bone. Irony on tragedy.
Life but an organ grinder on a slow ride to nowhere.
Any amount of time or belief placed in me returned.
Nonredeemable tickets and crackerjack gags.
Crumbling softly on the ride home.
Just a dark penny machine outside the matinee.
Dry gears stuck on years of wear and neglect.
Maybe if you hope real hard, the handle will turn
And I won't break.
Maybe if you eat all your vegetables.
Maybe if you promise some vague- imaginary offering of yourself...
Failure dawning on this machine.
Like the fading light behind the curtain's fall.
All things in serenity, after simple surrender.
Sardonics, sense, all the barbs and anguish of my spirit.
Your peace comes at too high a price.
