Out Like a Lamb

American Pie

Against a time the flames climbed
high, were lost in space -
so lost, indeed, from every place
four future symphonies erased
a long, long time ago.

The echoes past, of rock
and roll make one last call -
you lost your lives, he lost control
we lost our ever-lovin' soul
and raved and sank, no longer whole

The sights, the scents like sick
perfume - as smoke broke in
and filled our room, a mind monsoon.
February's second night was doom;
the music dead beneath no moon.


note ▼

April 25—Music—write a(nother) poem in response to a particular song or larger musical work (or, alternatively, to a jukebox situation connected to “drunken barroom layabouts” to quote Harlow Flick)