I stepped outside in the evening
To sip the cool draught of air.
You waited in the car all night
For me to finish my beer.

I did not take to standing 'round.
No, not then and there.
In this drunken state I wandered
Blind in the dark without fear.

I heard you honk the horn one time,
When you saw I was not near.
I waited and strained my ear to hear,
a second, to guide and steer-
|
So that I would easily return to you,
Before the twilight cleared.
But I heard no sound at all,
And morning had started its gears.

Stranded in a foreign place,
A man returns to fear.
|-Oh how we miss the kinder things
   Long after they've been near.

What is the hardest part
                    Of being alone?
It's the quietness,
A stillness making
What ought have been a home-
a house.
It's filled with beds,
But those lover's nests
Are             Empty.
And the thought is
As occupying as a dream.
A dream you cannot feel
Because the loneliness is keeping you awake

With no one to hold down your fears
         And keep you safe.

Painters, by the highest degree of inspiration,
And poets who with the Muse commune,
Command in their respective trades un-
Common craftmanship, exquisite creation
Of pen and brush upon the parchment
And canvass, through unfettered figment.

Gifted: poets, painters and musicians. Three
Geniuses on this terrestrial plane, with mind
As efficient as the moon in its fullest grind,
As do all artistic souls whose mastery
In finest workmanship are seen. Worship
The God of arts ye astronauts in spaceship,

For poets and painters are cardinal in artistic
Enrolment--and no less endowed are many another
Like sculptors--with thoughts solitary and cryptic.