The Sculptor

On Sunset Strip the lights have dimmed
And silent now their siren’s call.
A fading starlet’s eyes are brimmed
With tears–one more forgotten thrall
Who keeps her locks of platinum trimmed,
Awaits her call to glory,
Lays bare her soul to cheat decay
And rewrite her life’s story.
He sculpts her in immortal clay,
In meadows cold and hoary;
Holds time’s determined march at bay
From fields of faded glory.

Ryan Stone

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gathers no moss

Sixty miles from sleep
those lonely road voices
wage a war in his mind. Guilt
ebbed two cigarettes back
when parting words blurred
to a single white line, and raced
out into the gloam.

An old Stones shirt is all he left,
torn like the heart it now covers.
And somewhere back there
a girl sits alone, forsaking photos
and dreams; hates the way
his shirt makes her feel,
knows she’ll sleep in it
all the same.

Ryan Stone

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Lunch Line Metaphysics

He accepts the coffee and smiles
his best I’m more than I seem smile
at ‘You’re Being Served By Eve’

who stares right past him, or maybe
right through him, at the queue
percolating out the door.

He’s loved her each lunch break,
in a year full of lunch breaks,
from his nobody place in line–

one more grey suit
in a nondescript forest

where he knows should he fall,
he will not make a sound.

Ryan Stone

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