He knits like a poet

Stuck in a few palletes

Yet his threads seem thicker

Than his breakfast's bread.

So he lifted his paper

And ripped it to shreds

As he sips his coffee

The paper did bled.

"Bashed to the head

By a blunt cold wrench."

The inspector concluded:

"It's Howard Bent."

No bullets were spent

At home he went

His trousers were wet

"Fear for his life, he felt"

Hid under the bed

A scratch over the forehead

"My god what a mess,"

The servant gagged and left.

Suddenly up overhead

A piano played in clefs

Swiftly we paced, upstairs we fled

A sibling of his: it's William Bent.

"We were told you were tone deaf,

But played the piano well?"

The Inspector interjected,

As William went ahead.

"Dear brother, hello

have you taken your meds?"

Upset and dejected I said:

"THERE'S A DEAD MAN DOWN THERE"

"Good evening Mr. Bent,"

Said a calm voice downstairs

"Have you finished with your toys?"

It's my lovely: Rose Taylor-Bent.

"MY DEAR GET OUT OF HERE"

I screamed, with sweat I'm drenched.

"William, grab his hand!"

A needle pierced, it bled.

Somewhere out of nowhere

As I slumber and dreamt

Enters a man painted in red

A figure approached and wept

"I thought we're playing?" he said,

"but why did you hit me instead?"

"BECAUSE YOU'RE ALWAYS AHEAD"

I scorned violently to the dead.

"But I am you, and you are me,

It's me and you, together, we're free!"

I looked through a mirror

And then and there I faced horror.

A man with no lips, no eyes, no nose

I woke up and hurriedly arose,

Facing the face of my dear Rose:

"My sweetest, my love,

don't leave me no more"

As I gently stood

A mirror I took

To my face he stared:

It's Howard Bent.

Beauty is a margin

of what is sweet

or what is rotten.

A majesty of remembrance,

through time shall be forgotten.

If one took a bite

Of its lustful sight

a taste of what might,

could it be sour or right?

You sat by the windowsill,
in closed doors and a hollow room.
Those wounds seem deep,
out of broken stills and useless boons.

You're a byproduct of loneliness
Where happiness lays its head
And the grips of idleness
Made you slumber instead.

A poet's life is that of tragedy

Once born, its fate is sealed.

But what is fate to a baloney?

To a chronic liar; a phony?

But all it tells is constant truth

No wonder Eve bit the fruit.