Done…

Done, is the drink in his hand.

Done, dim are the lights,

last call.



As faces fade,

and the door opens,

lonely is the man,

that fails.



A shift in seat,

eyes wandering,

left to right.

While all the while,

he wrote;

he writes.



October air,

carries,

the man home,

to the streets.

Yuppie < Beatnik,

in public,

he speaks.



Parked,

in a bench,

his bed.

Words written, they

position his neck,

he rests his head.



Morning, glory!

Next day, reprieved!

and,

joints rustle,

as leaves are blown by the wind.

Away goes the old,

death is easily carried,

away.



This life,

his life,

carried away.

Not knowing,

that,

destruction is beautiful.

It only takes one’s self,

to realize.



To realize,

a beauty that:

Is not at the end of a bottle.

Is not an ashtray full of butts, or

of what ifs.

It’s not lights out.



It’s the glimmer in someone’s eye.

The morning dew,

that reveals,

the previous night.

It’s the ink, bleeding.

The newspaper that crumbles.

The makeshift home,

that conceals,

a lost soul.