Solo Trumpet

Not a fancy way to end a fractious
state of change – without a bang or
whimper, drained of muted lees in
clichés straining sages’ vapid views
of credibility on vacant faith

Eras past our wont for privacy was
ageless and androgynous – a font that
age eponymous thus beggared of its
trust – it plays a solo trumpet
on an empty stage 

Shouting “But it isn’t me!” may ease
a feral ache of pain, but no release
sustains the peace you seek – agony
remains which isn’t you and isn’t me;
so who’s in Hell are these remains?
© 16 July 2011, I. D. Carswell