the last of it

where’s your dress?
flowing in and out
where’s your compact?
trying to dance to a different song
well, here it all is
loose threads and shattered glass
on the thicket and the trinkets
scattered across the freshly cut grass
how sweet the scent of summer?
but youth has now run away
and you’re left to clean up its mess
so what, so what
a piano twinkles on the horizon
and a melody somberly plays
where’s your youth?
where’s your head?
no matter, no matter
barefeet on grass, the mess is mess
and you can very well
walk away from it