Dead poems ooze from my pen,
my bloodstained fingers refusing
to drop the weapon, this implement
that has inflicted so much damage,
drained so much life-force.
Inspiration mutilated and disfigured,
beautiful moments slaughtered
in my rough butcher’s hands.
Their corpses litter the floor,
expressions pallid and vacant.
What a waste of life.
The Old Bar
Midsummer, and the steam of the day’s sun
hisses into the moth-eaten pub.
I sip on the last of the tepid bourbon
from an unholy grail that ages,
the fresh faces washing over me.
Their voices rise in bubbles of laughter,
bobbing about in the expired air.
Igniting sparks so effortlessly
while my decrepit lungs deflate
and shrivel under increasing pressure.
I have never felt so ancient.
They are filled to the brim with life,
vivid flames that dance and flirt.
It hits me in a dry choking wave –
the only thing I am too young for is death.
As Time Goes By
There were thrown gifts and burned letters,
secret meetings and shrouded kisses.
An affair to remember, a weepy,
intended for black and white.
It ended, typically, in disaster –
a cataclysmic event,
unravelling our entire past like an old tapestry.
But we’ll always have Paris.
Snow falls like feathers,
light and airy, asthmatic breaths
that catch in the sky.