poem | The Great Gatsby

Stunted daisies spring from fields of
slyly murmured lust,
toe the line between life and love and give the men something
they'll never be free of.

West Egg, East Egg, ritzy or covered in dust
two roads show divergence of class and no one wants to take the one that
Robert Frost wrote of.

Here, the American dream litters the streets with the essence of the unseen,
the un-grieved, and the make believe,

Here, is where children are born to be men or to be doomed
and the fleeting burden of girlhood will blossom into a beautiful little fool.

Until night becomes alive with strobe lights: a call sign
the day bears the brunt of an almost biblical decline,
a state of ridiculous richness and self ridicule that only a man so 
hammered with lust could physically conjure.

Old money can fund a lot but not
more time for Gatsby and his daisy filled flower pot.

the sun shines until it doesn't,
people love until they don't,
and time can be a dangerous thing to those who don't respect love's cost.

© Ella Levick apoeticdaydreamer.com

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