David Berman (4 January 1967 / Williamsburg, Virginia)
When dreams have turned to dust and dust to slime;
When all you ever were or hoped to be
Appears as no more than a jest of time,
A foolish jest, a tasteless parody
On some unlikely fiction; when not just
Your dear pretensions but your best ideals
Have been ground down into an acrid dust
That you are forced to eat for all your meals;
When—oh, but what can metaphor provide
Sufficient in its scope to comprehend
The fury never to be satisfied
Of one betrayed by a once-trusted friend?
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