Last dance

Where is my dream
of angels and cream
of a gurgling stream
of a silent sunbeam
of scalding hot steam
of an unending scream.

Where is my song
in a world so wrong
in the toll of a gong
in the silence so long
in the curves of a thong
in the puff of a bong.

Where is my passion
for the glitter of fashion
for the wasted obsession
for the ragged decision
for the opposite precision
for the loss of my vision.

Where is my chance
for a pike or a lance
for a little romance
for a stolen glance
for a shy advance
for one last dance.