Do not look sadly
at days gone by
days below days
like a river
running under stars
do not listen to priests, the blues
or that bitter veteran fool
of some past war claiming to miss
a piece of his soul, his only disease
is the rotting of an *******
the poet that forgets
in remembrance of you
is a lunatic's left hand man
a gun in the hands of a fool
on Sundays he is the acolyte
of the moon, night following
other nights, the eyes of the blind
the stranger who lusts after wives
his tool the bitter root of a persimmon tree
and every time he draws his pen
like a knife and drawls his soliloquy
I say forget him, let us drink again
for poets do not cut their fingers
at cheap joints like ******
toasting one another's death
they do not eat the cheese or hoard
the rich black bread of their poetry;
the true poet gives it kindly to the poor.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
Do not look sadly
at days gone by
days below days
like a river
running under stars
do not listen to priests, the blues
or that bitter veteran fool
of some past war claiming to miss
a piece of his soul, his only disease
is the rotting of an *******
the poet that forgets
in remembrance of you
is a lunatic's left hand man
a gun in the hands of a fool
on Sundays he is the acolyte
of the moon, night following
other nights, the eyes of the blind
the stranger who lusts after wives
his tool the bitter root of a persimmon tree
and every time he draws his pen
like a knife and drawls his soliloquy
I say forget him, let us drink again
for poets do not cut their fingers
at cheap joints like ******
toasting one another's death
they do not eat the cheese or hoard
the rich black bread of their poetry;
the true poet gives it kindly to the poor.
