Don’t call out for us,
The young are dead.
No longer your clones,
Forever meandering shadows,
Peaceful aches and rhinestone dreams.
Don’t call out for us,
We’re young, no more.
The ghost of our future,
Dances on its grave.
The alcohol no longer bitter,
Serves our early reckoning.
Don’t call out for us,
The young have left.
Bills unpaid, songs unheard,
Laughing at the qualms of our desires.
Whispering songs of grief,
Soulless, heaven less.
Don’t call out for us,
The young no longer answer their phones.
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You won’t believe me. But your poems are as perfect as Johnny flynn’s lyrics .