How do you make it better?
Paul told me not to make it bad,
But sitting here in the dark,
The hall light like a luminous spirit
Hanging over me, I can’t seem
To wash the tears from my eyes.
The empty house, filled with
Lost-hopes, hallow voices, and empty promises
Drown the once buoyant chants of the
Frost on Sunday rerun I found on YouTube.
Maybe from the steps of superstardom
The depths of despair
Look like a small puddle.
But the staircase to Paradiso
Passes through the Inferno,
And I think I might have gotten lost
Just like mama and papa did.
Why else could such good souls
Not make it into heaven?
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