when I was young in my summer season I tarried with junkies, thieves, and other lepers I took the drugs they brought me and used the words they taught me those words are old now teach me some new ones or leave now in silence don’t stain my solitude with worthless gestures there’s not much time left and I’m busy writing eulogies
my best years are past
but I wouldn’t buy them back
the past is a curse that still
beats inside me I’m not complaining merely observing if you catch me weeping don’t be concerned now and again I’m struck with nostalgia it’s a vicarious vice for people my age my erstwhile companions have all crossed
over their
ghosts tell stories that play on my mind
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