she hung boho ideas from her ears like misplaced string,
leftovers of fires started by the pretty boy in gold
who could promptly match her twisted baby blues
in a way that revolving-door sea never could.
he said, 'livin' to live is a peculiar thing
but what happens to livin' when we grow old?'
she flicked through her hung ideas, paying her dues,
trying all at once to do the most good.
she was more atune to the potential sting
of the boy's fires burning out, a premature fold
that would leave her floating in the free-fall blues
which come when her heart don't beat like it should.
then she let the ideas go and was left with the ring
of wanted waste, of stories never getting told.
the pretty boy moved on, needing new news;
he couldn't place his disdain, didn't think he ever would.
his fires went with him, flame to soot, and then
she was sure she'd not hang dreams of such a world again.