Return of the Student Prince

Fallen leaves are crackling beneath my feet

Even crisper than the December air.

A pine-smoke wind is blowing through my hair:

The smell of fire, but too far from heat.

And I feel cold.

I walk through the ghost town of my geist birth.

The buildings are empty, but they are full.

They are laughing memories, not yet made whole.

Yet, somehow they define my worth.

And I feel old.

I walk inside the warmth of an office.

And I’m greeted by a warm cheery smile.

I sit down with warm coffee for a while.

But the warmth does not suffice.

I still feel cold.

I laugh at as a memory reminds me

Of a pleasure I’d had in the past.

And then a tear cause the pleasure can’t last.

And the past is what somehow defines me.

I’m very old.

I hear the squish-thump of a rubber stamp.

I’m crucified on a yellow card.

And this salvation is ever so hard.

Thirty pieces of silver in her hand.

And now I’m sold.

12-1-1999