Memory passes like a bus
Spirit passes like a ghost
Aura disappears like a dream
Smiles bend like a will

Bohemians cry out and about, losing
Their sanity as passions flush like
Clogged sewage or drug busts, replaced with,
Dare I say, growing up. No deals
Selling songs to parents or art to perverts,
Poems to lovers and rants about ex's
                                                                  Good
Reapers thresh the rapid seeds
Right before it's not.

Maybe its time to do drugs again.