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Poetry: Special Days
by Allan Traphagan

But all is the result of everything and nothing. Even my death will leave a shadow. And it will cost you nothing, but I know that perhaps you can ring a dollar from it. I remember those days when your lies won trophys and your martyrdom is still famous upon the mantles of whore palaces. Those places where you throw your cloak about your throat and head held high, march across the stage of ogling balding flesh and behind a forced tear, tremble from the attention. If that's all there was to you then why did I even care? Farewell once beautiful goddess, farewell old clown....

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