Sewn into the garments of despair
Swaying to the sound of dirges
Souls trapped in crystalline miniature jars
Undefined, frozen
Glassy-eyed and drunk as lords
Cigarette thrills
On the terrace where dreams die

Society perceives them to be degenerate cretins
With no hope

The poets
Whose melancholy birthed creativity
And gave way to brilliance

Their astonishing translucency from laying it bare
To write poetry is to unclothe
Oneself in front of the masses