Dead Past Poem by John Sensele

Your wedding soon comes up, John
Are you inviting Josephine and I?
No, FHM, the expiry date of the love loan
Has flown by. Time to let cast of the past die.

Time to move on, time to chart the future
Where joy smiles and a boy beckons
At ladies and babies gallumph when nature
Means so much more than dead beacons.

Breathing into mummies and dummy escapades
Spawns sharp daggers and harp thorns
That taunt the unwary and haunt wary spades
Scooping sand gland and blowing bland horns.

The past and its pesky repast ought to fast on its bed of torn roses
Denuded of radiance and fragrance in a semblance deflated to bare bones
Amid shouts of louts and posts that deride rides of future causes
Which promise bouquets of happiness and ounces of precious stones.