My foresight is murky so I write out goals every day.
None have come alive, on the floor static they lay,
I’ve studied language, perhaps it’s the right word I’m missing
But my dreams are still lifeless, a carpet of clay.

Once my words danced filled with vigour and Truth,
I was called a hero and i had life in each breath,
They never called me that again,
My character lost, now I am Death

I walk the streets of the old dark town,
It’s late and it is beautiful
I walk the streets of an empty quiet town,
Curtains shuffle but the floor and doors stay ever-static.

I dance with the shadows that meet me at each streetlight
and box with my ethereal friends when they want to see me fight.
Cold nights are permeated by spiritual warm love,
The shadows behind me and the light of sanctity above.

Bridges are fragile and wooden so
I break down rotting walkways.
Chips of the past are my kindling if the light of my internal lantern is dwindling.

Etched into the stone of you
Mr Bukowski your are words clear
They’re here permeating tears
My drum hears, my lobe sears
Carved in your grave “Don’t try”
And I’m near

I feel immolated
I didn’t notice at first
The temperature rising slowly
I felt no pain
But it’ll scar from gradual sears and flame
It kept burning, building until it was blazing and FLASH

I survived the inferno,
And I’m soothed by the ash