There is a song that will never be
not one of a crooning summer breeze
but of smothered dreams in ***** streets—

Those buried in shrouds of leaves
plucked from maple trees,
couched in green moss or
in lovely silks on soft downy beds

will never know those
who died on a freezing night,
a bottle by their side or
a needle in their arm.—

The lucky who lived and died
their dreams, earned laurel crowns
will never know the nightmare ones
murdered in their sleep just for fun.

Those who dream of seeing heaven,
rising beyond the drop of stars
with a chorus of trailing nightingales
and a full bench of funeral soloists

pay no heed to those *****, ragged ones,
with the infected heart who fell into the
road  pummeled by wheels that just rolled on—
loud music playing over their last silent notes.

In the rose of their blood, these murdered lie,
the violet of the violent passing bye-—
a thousand moonbeams strong filing  their
unmarked resting spot to the manicured tombs.