I sit here, in the graveyard of my dreams, 

Weeping stupid, futile tears,

For friends whom I have never known,

The chances I let pass me by

And for all the places I have never lived.

 

I did not live in Wentworth Street

And view Saint Leonard’s lonely church,

Halo'd by the setting sun,

Or wait in glorious trepidation

For my lustful new lover to come,

Whilst sipping on her coke and rum.

This is the life I did not live.

 

Instead, I filled out puerile forms

And answered the insistent phone,

To forge a career of my very own,

Climbing, daily, the greasy pole,

Marching up work’s windy hills,

Cooling my passion and youthful ardour,

As managers gripped me by the throat!

 

So, I cry salt tears for those days, remote,

For memories I can never now have

And for all the deathless poetry,

I never wrote.

 

As existence elapses and the sands of time

Flow rapidly down towards the gap

A fathomless sorrow holds on to my soul.

Each grain of the sand is a friend unmade,

An open goal that I cravenly missed.

 

I should have done so much more with my life,

Than this.