Starting over, that’s the story

Starting over, that’s the story. Nothing special, there is no glory.
Some say to life, “I can’t stand it.” I just revolve like the planet.
There are no guts or grounds for meaning.
There is no semi-fertile soil for the gleaning.
I’m wearing, more or less, the same pair of shorts and shirt,
Yes, I’m pretty much dressed the way I was when I used to flirt
With dreams of abundance and poems of innocence and expectation.
These days I drive for distances beyond this Lone Star fence and call my drive a vacation.
These days I get excited about entering a brand new apartment with a pool;
Finding a few new coworkers who haven’t heard yet that I’m just a fool.
These are the years where fears have left me but the business that remains
Is based on minimal losses and marginal gains.
This is the story that I am required to tell, just outside of heaven, but closer to hell.
I could have been a burned out wasted fool, or some kind of pervert,
But instead, I chose to be a flea on a dog munching crumbs in the sun of a dying universe.
An unwelcome guest, a visitor to a realm, a tempest at the helm of a ship bound for Neverland.
And so, starting over means less than lips could speak or leak into the unyielding shifting sands
Of the desert that is clearly an ever-keening ecosystem wrought by my peculiar plans.

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