The Last Troubadour


You are the last of your tribe,
the one who will bring it to an end;
this broken ring of the failed and lonely,
where nothing is and nothing remains.

Are you happy now that the deed is done?
Did it bring you what you thought it would?
Have you pondered the repercussions,
the secret judgments of your songs?

What else could have been done in such a time?
Maybe it was always too late for those like us?
She’s gone for whom our songs were meant, these
fragments left in flames beyond regret or sorrow.

Do not look away from this poverty, seek it out,
know it for what you are and have always been;
this changing thing, hollow and without substance,
a mere vacancy without thought, a perceiving thing.

Keep to that which gives you sustenance,
those thoughts from the other end of time,
where paradise is not a childhood myth,
and you are neither king nor victim, but a maker.

If you were expecting things to be different, now
you know the truth: the pure condition of love;
and wisdom is but this darkness unveiled in you:
a tale of failure and complicity: to know and be.

You stand there now alone and naked, stubborn
like a diamond encased in cruelty and pain; unyielding
and indifferent to the flames of desire burning you down
till you realize there is nothing left to do but sing, sing again.

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

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