A Prayer for the Nihilists (Bad Children Blues)

All we can hear is static
pouring out of the
headphones
of our MP3 players.
The songs are all
recorded
in the wrong format.

The music won't play.

Crossing the bridge,
Walking the gray boulevard
in the pouring rain,
not feeling the cold
and
alone with my wolf-pack
of friends, black leather,
old denim, tribal tattoos,
moving like frozen molasses,
struggling against the tide,
while the river
washes under us,
white water
eddying
against the tide
from the distant sea,
and each of us
thinking
about what we don't
or won't
have
in this life.

We are children without gifts
and Christmas morning was pre-empted
by the State of the Union address.

Too late to rage
against the coming sunset,
too late to rail
against the bright new dawn,
too late to curse
the Fates
and the Powers-That-Be,
too late to mourn
the loss of passing Time,
passing Youth, passing Futures,
passing lovers, ships
in a broken night,
too late to pass the torch,
it all flows
like cold green water
under the shadow
of a gray steel bridge.

The boulevard
holds the notes
to the music of our
ice-encrusted souls,
Fragile jewelry
from forgotten dreams
and
desperate dreamers.
All we can hear is static
pouring through the
headphones
of our MP3 players.

The music won't play.