Poets And Other Dead Guys
Old souls are fools that know
Beauty comes with a cost
To tiptoe on a line cast over
an abyss is exhilarating.
But the subtle beauty in strokes
Of paint and smoke and dance of letters,
speak of slices over thighs
and sighs loved by nothing,
except desperation and dead self respect.
Wails of strings echo through time
Resonating with the wreckage of the outsider