As the sun sets over the horizon,

He stands alone, lonely and forgotten.

A young man sips his martini, shaken and not stirred,

Rolex on his wrist, he is steadfast and undeterred.



At his warm home his Jag and yacht await,

Not on earth, but at heaven’s pearly gate.

His children play games outside, their laughter a steady stream,

But the sound of police sirens rips through his surreal dream.



The man yearns for his wife; he knows no greater being exists than she,

“Existed”, he quickly amends; she died by his hand at ten past three.

The beauty of the goddess Sita and the eyes of a fertile doe,

His former love cannot seduce him; he awaits his fate below.



On the scalding concrete bleeding, he cries as the West Wind cools his face,

He can see his soul mate above the stars, dressed in silk, satin and lace.

He reaches upwards to her soft arms, enchanted by her magic spell,

He now lies not in a concrete grave, but in the roasting pot of Hell.



“I have miles to go before leap, miles to go before I leap!” he cries, badly bruised and beaten.

“It’s miles to go before I sleep.” The Devil calmly replies, “Even I know that you filthy cretin.”

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