Sweet dagger, pierce that midnight beauty,
that walks like cloudless climes and starry skies.
Go now, men, and do your duty.
Steal the schemes of other rhymes.

I am the captain of my ship; I am the master of metre and time.
I've mastered the art of thieving wit.
I've stolen the fame of men long dead
and staked my claim to the fruits of their minds.
I can write words yet unsaid;
But I've not the mind;
I've not the inclination;
I've not the creativity
to write my own lines.

If this rings too close to home,
perhaps you ought to write your own.
More likely though,
you'll just steal mine.

Time is all he has left to waste.
Razors in his pocket, not for his face.
Pictures in his wallet, of his kids, not her face.
Not her mocking smile. Not her teeth made of lace.
Not her... Not him. Just a train ride to Boston.
A cigarette in the shadow of what's left of this place before the bell rings
                     it tolls for thee.

It's a lonely track in an alley.
It's another wrist run tally.
It's drops wet from his wrists.
It's those picture-frame kids.
No memory can fill the mist
in his eyes; It can't replace
the blood dropping like a surprise
party at eight. Tears don't fall from his face. At this pace...
Trains don't stop at Boston. They don't care about his kids.
They stop only till the next sad jazz-man pops in ready to erase.

The bell rings. He ceases to matter as the next guy shuffles in.

Shall we lie upon an aching bed,
and speak of gentler things?
The sheets are rough on calloused hands,
broken from the onus of strangling, stifling rings.
The pillows feel like granite tombstones,
and though your cries are loud and low,
I feel us drifting apart together.
In this bed of dirt, we are alone.

Arms are weak and withered,
and the strings won't heed his shaking hands.
Pain's his only feeling, and that can't convey
what his gasping heart hungers to say
About her smile.. about her eyes,..
about her gasping breaths so frail and grey.

The symphony has begun
Playing mellow tunes
Beckoning the arrival of death
At the expense of him.
But his strings won't let him
Change the way the music is going,
His clammy hands trembling,
Shaking,
Breaking.
(He wore his heart on his hands.)
All he can do is watch
And listen
As the music drifts,
Deeper, slower...
Until her heart
Stops.

Arms are weak and withered, holding
cards upon the table. Folding
never was his strong suit anyway.
He waits a while in silence, knowing
her pain is no nearer to slowing.
Growing screams beckon plugs to pull away.
He doesn't know what's left to play,
but his withered fingers seem to know the way.

She listens as the melody starts,
and falters as she closes her eyes.
Arms are withered weary,
as the music slowly dies.

But as the silence comes around,
It revitalizes an old strength.
Calling upon the fundamentals of
An art once forgotten,
But its tremors will now resonate.

Tremors mark his trembling hands,
and the music is April, alive and new.
The monotone flat-line droning on
is in metronome time like when they were young,
and he matches her tempo, like they used to do.
He plays her life, her laugh, her smile...
The music stops, and after a while
the day is through. And he thinks to himself...
*Tonight is over... and there's the dawn...
But it marks the start of a day...
                                                   without you...

I was born with a baseball bat
in hand. I had walk-mans and dreams.
I had "Let's go to college"
I had "Shoot for the moon."
If I could travel back,
and tell that kid what to do.
I'd say
"You wouldn't believe
the revolution coming for you. "
"Run. Get away. You'll never be free."
"There's nowhere to hide from these blinking lights
and these screens."
"Cherish your days of Summer in the grass.
Cherish those boring Monopoly nights."
"Technology is everywhere
And the Kid's Aren't Alright."