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Thursday, July 22, 2010


I do not have a heart of gold
I grow weary as I grow old
The young will never understand
The loneliness I speak of
When I was young I dreamed
Some alchemist would come
Along and turn this lead
Inside my chest
Into something precious
But the art of alchemy is dead
The sorcerers are fresh out
Of new apprentices
The last wizard died in Oz
I can not pull the sword
From the stone that is my heart
And I am still alone
Arthur had Merlin
But what good did it do him
When Guinevere loved Lancelot
Magic healed not
His broken heart
Heavy is the burden beneath my ribs
They are a cage of iron bars;
A prison for a thing of worthlessness
How the pulsing throbbing ache
Keeps my spirit wide awake
So I can no longer dream
Though lead melts low
The blood runs cold
From ancient bergs and winter snow
And I am trudging without snowshoes
Mountainous terrain;
The mounting pain of abuse
Perhaps if I only had a staff
To lean upon
Then I could laugh
In the grim face of adversity
When the reaper brought
The hearse for me
I know in my mind my time is short
Do not trouble me with sympathy
Or words of pretended empathy
Can you know my sorrow
And hope yet for tomorrow?
Will you become a martyr to my cause?
Yellow riches run in veins
Throughout the caves
Within the mountains
But I am no miner with pick and shovel;
More gypsy wanderer than lover
I walk alone the drifting snow
Like pilgrims on Kilimanjaro
I wonder at the many dead
From bursting hearts
And aching heads
And I wonder what you would do
To reach the summit of Uhuru
I can no longer make the trek
I rest rather than break my neck
Though illustrious are stories told;
I do not have a heart of gold
This leaden thing inside my chest
Need die before it can find rest
As of yet it knows regret
It cannot find one alchemist
To turn its worthlessness to gold
And I grow weary as I grow old

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Poet and musician Fabian G. Franklin invites you to join him on a poetic journey through the soul and nature.