"I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was I meant to be"- T.S Eliot

You sit on the cusp of the hole you’ve dug,

the sinkhole of sorts 

staring back.

Rage and melancholy, nostalgia more or less,

echo the stagnation of your path’s fiery tempest.

Weeds take root with each footfall

‘Till palm trees suck the marrow from your soul.

Here lies Augustus, crowned with flecks of gold,

but you’ve tripped over your scepter and shattered your throne.

the holy fool regent, who weeps for you now?

When you’ve blasphemed for a sunset strip,

for neon lights illuminating the godless dive 

of cigarettes and hot pants.

maybe the city’ll take you back

but you’ve outgrown 

iron-rigid alleyways stacked with yellow cabs,

though you’ll still dream 

of the dirge of shivering boots and scarves

wrapped up in waifs of romance.

when the sun finally peeks through the corporate bars of architectural middle fingers flipping off the divine for trapping us in Faustus’ hell, the perdurable climb to perfection, you awaken.

You sit on the cusp of the hole you’ve dug,

the sinkhole of sorts

staring back.

And exhale the pipe-dreams that flew you this low

shed your shield, your pride. Militarize. 

Wide eyes means awestruck by divinity (says art history),

but they’ve never seen quite a fall since the Romans so I’ll call them liars, 

As you take in the abyss and it takes you back.

You sit on the cusp of the hole you’ve dug, 

And, well, you know how the old saying goes, 

Quia in inferno nulla est redemption.