After hope goes,
after bitter tears,
dark, rank with accumulated shit,
after too many days after,
gorillas, elephants, white hopping hares
screaming coarse epithets
gets to be daily fare,
after selling out for a promise
of magic beans that never quite
feed the hunger, never
quiet the ghosts or
the grumbling giants who demand
because they can,
because their tantrums kill.
After the thrill is gone,
no option to die young and pretty,
no romantic suicide pacts,
no hope-driven suicide bombers
going out in a blaze of glory
in the company of hated strangers.
Drudging steps, heavy heartbeats,
clanging memories, busy summer
bees buzzing, buzzing
like cocaine.
The pain is the same, distributed
here and there.  No ultimate
achievement leads
to golden skies.

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