Black cotton pants
Mirrored by a black sweater
Tight at the cuffs, but soft everywhere else.
These are the beginnings of a man
Gentle in his own way
Feels and falls often
On the words of others
A melancholic poet
He goes into long tangents on his head,
One looping into another like the hair on his head
Capable of enjoying good wine, but not the
Good company of his friends.
All he wants is a quiet night alone.
There may be no end
To the verses he writes:
Literary, yet with a tinge of
Harsh bite
Criticizing the commodities encountered in life
He dabbles in drama, debates, and critiques
This poem is ending
But his words will live on.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 12:15 AM UTC
Black cotton pants
Mirrored by a black sweater
Tight at the cuffs, but soft everywhere else.
These are the beginnings of a man
Gentle in his own way
Feels and falls often
On the words of others
A melancholic poet
He goes into long tangents on his head,
One looping into another like the hair on his head
Capable of enjoying good wine, but not the
Good company of his friends.
All he wants is a quiet night alone.
There may be no end
To the verses he writes:
Literary, yet with a tinge of
Harsh bite
Criticizing the commodities encountered in life
He dabbles in drama, debates, and critiques
This poem is ending
But his words will live on.
I find that (for me) it's so hard to write about something you can't see. This time is an exception.
