The Death Of Lucy Poem by Greg Like

When Lucy Got Home
No one was calling Her
by Her name anymore.

No one cries out loud:
'Hey! Lucy! Join us for a Beer Or two! '

She didn't need no ad hoc welcoming comettees,
Not even simple unassuming friendly gestures,
Of people that she used to know
since always.

In her apartment nowadays
A measureless chaos has begun to regin.
Dust, dirt, filthiness, Hunger-mugger,
Any words you'd use would seem to fit
Pertinently.

Books of the maestros, which she knew
Only from their biographies,
And she didn't managed to Get to know them closer,
Were occupying hogly the blind shelves
Of her room.

It's not the way you should do it with those gentlemen.
She did it not the honest way. But it was still quite alright I guess.
She liked wine a bit more than other girls
Thanks to that she could travel light through billions of miles
In her daydreaming.
Dream by dream.
Biting her nails or fixing her eye.

When she parked comfortably In Her old armchair,
Her fingertips discovered spots of acaroids dust,
Which instantly mixed up
with the soft epidermis of her palm.

She couldn't compare that feeling
To anything else on the Earth.
The jester on the TV set before her,
Has begun to knife her kevlar heart
with his eyes.

A clueless melody has flown out
from the photos she kept in her wallet.