Here lies the smiles,
the long days spent playing in the sun.
The grass is brown,
the trees dead—
the old streets barren,
cracked and poorly repaired with tar.
Jagged potholes pop tires.
Old friends are long gone,
some to better things,
and some gone from this world.
Here lies the simpler days—
we all just wanted to grow up, but now we long for you.
Here lies the petty drama,
“The Penis Game,”
the black and gold uniforms behind bats and balls,
the dirt in our mouths and eyes.
The early morning tournaments,
the soul-crushing practices after terribles loses.
The players are new,
the old coaches gone.
No one remembers a damn thing about “our days.”
Here lies “the worst days of our lives”—
we were on and off, but you weren’t really the worst.
Here lies the space suits,
the lab coats,
the guitars and the microphones;
the vacuum sparked by shining stars,
helping the sick and saving the injured,
the blinding lights and cheering crowds.
The sky is black,
stars long burned out.
The sick passed on, and the disease spread far and wide.
The injured have long succumb to their wounds.
The guitar gathers dust in the corner;
the strings snapped years ago.
The lights never flipped on.
The crowd was only ever a lone chirping cricket.
Here lies the dreams we once had—
were told we could achieve then had shattered by the very reality that gave us false hope.
Rest in peace, old friends.
you will be missed.