There’s no Fool Like a Bar Stool

I was once fashionable in a Tank Top,
Or popular as a phrase, a saying.
I lived on the lips of my proud mother.
I came to her and then was gone.
Off I sped trying to find a way,
My way.
I surfed on the breeze of youth,
I conquered everything,
Everything but myself.
Having fallen victim of patternation
I sought solace in vitro.
I had reached twenty years of aging.

Although now an ending draws ever closer,
I submit once again to my feet.
I am stationery, as if planted.
My marching days live now
In my long gone portion of time.
I have blistered my last foot
After chasing fortune and fame.
I am now simply at a  messing point.
I feel like a missed point
Like a sea shell on a bleaching beach.
So done over by time and its rituals, 
Daily I commit to solitude.

© 2020 Christopher Thompson.

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