Like a drumming crowd
who scream and spit
and shove and curse
they force on through.
Clutching with craze
a stolen view of the
street brawl ahead,
the ****** confusion
that all have said
is the life of my life,
the death of my death,
and the end of my faith.

Did it change of late,
or was it as such
since pre-time arose?
Me a bad actor,
my life a bad show?
The tickets are sold
but all can see that
no story's been told.
And still I roam
with rhymes that
wither and fade
under eyes of scorn.

And in good times,
no eye at all.