The golden age

This is the golden age.

Don't blow your winnings.

It's easy to sleepwalk 

through all of this elegance.

The sound and the taste,

of the people we cling to,

the drum that we move to.

The hands that we hold when we're 

shaking at midnight.

This is the golden age.

Call off believing that

morning will save us.

Tomorrow's a grave yard,

so take off the sunglasses,

ripen your pupils,

and dance as it passes.

With friends that you kiss

and lay down with at midnight.

This is the golden age,

pity the olden days,

gone like today will be,

trapped in their gilded cage.

Diaries, lithographs,

poems and photographs.

All just an epitaph,

for the last time

we smile,

and make it to midnight.

copyright Niall Hollaert © 2020 all rights reserved