Tonight his senses are dulled,
Perhaps from the morning rain to afternoon dew.

The hat he wears, to further cancel out the tunes he feels bleeding into his psyche.

A flower blooming on the battlefield of love, of dance.

He numbs himself further.

Only now is he whole. Complete.

Music and video flash past his eyes and ears, enveloping within the eye of the seer.

The poet lays his writ to rest.


It is going to be a month of perdition, after all.