Too Late

A sickness that consumes
A decision prolonged
Conflicting questions
Silencing the wrath of God
Edwards whispering in my ear
Might as well be damned now
The voice of God muted
Though he speaks to the child in me
That little girl who wanted to dance
Be a ballerina
In her pink tutu
At the Eastman School of Music
New York City
Tired blistered feet
But a big genuine heart
And rhythmic soul
Another voice follows you
Past the weeping willows
Of the duck pond
Saying to hell with your dreams
You will never be a dancer
You'll never take the stage in The Nutcracker
You cannot star on Broadway or imagine a supporting role
To hell with your dreams
To hell with you
To hell
Hell
And so the albatross hangs
Through years of pretend normalcy
No one's fault
Yet begetting ghosts of regret
Nights of solitude
Giving refuge to your dreams
Your embattled illusions
Hoping someday
To reconnect
Loneliness
Yellowed wedding cake
All you want to do is give
When there is no way to give
No reason to keep living
With no way out of the grave of norms
The one that binds
The voices
Silent