nobody gives a ****
about poetry
or books
charles bukowski
or siddhartha
nobody gives a ****
about the universe
or extra terrestrials
carl sagan
or that we are stardust
nobody gives a ****
about Led Zeppelin
or Pink Floyd
Joni Mitchell
or Nirvana
nobody gives a ****
except for me

Here she comes walking
The silent steps that hover on egg shells
Velvet incarnation
Her every word is where my mind dwells
There she goes walking
My body must be made of glass
Her eyes stay set forward
and I shatter with her pass

The lines on your face
Are a puzzlement
Who put them there
Or is it just sentiment

The gray in your hair
Wasn't always there
Who painted them
Are they from a friend

The limp in your step
Is not a threat
Its a gentle age
Like a mark on a page