He was certainly buzzed, Drunk, a better word, When his convertibles wheel Struck a tree near the curb.. A woman’s scream; then silence, shock. He whispered her name But no one answered back.
The artist was dying, But still he observed: The drip, drip, of his blood Onto asphalt that’s cracked. Death imitates art. Now break, gentle heart. Sirens sound in the distance a bright light in the dark. As all neurons fired in search of a spark.