They trust our blind allegiance to their lies.
    We will bury them with their own arrogance.
    Forget your petty differences with the world.
    We're in a lifeboat, the Titanic ******* us down.

I'm lost in the dark ink black room.
  A single candle lights my way as I
  walk from room to room looking for
  broke levers or jammed gears of fear.
  A tiny flame tries to die in the wind.
  My psyche is vast, with desire and sin.

This old poet poses with his worn out lines.
     Tender poetry of youth and love's beginnings,
     faltering steps beyond puberty's uncertainty.

     I've pounded my love on typewriters, each letter
     has a part to play in this drama with a weight
     all its own. Smash a key and it opens old wounds.

I'm 71 tomorrow and I'm losing ground.
I still run but slow. I lift less weight.
I know we die in increments. I don't want
to live forever and watch my friends die.
I'll take my turn and go on time. I hope
to see Bailey settled in her own nest.

We hunger for our own kind.
    Ordinary people touch us not.
    I yearn for the broken and bent
    like me. We color outside lines.
    We are on a spectrum invented by
    some cog in the wheel of boring.

We're on the beach while
   the sun surrenders the horizon
   to the Harvest moon.
   I'm stunned by the display.
   My world is swallowed by
   saints who sin for sinners.

I used to believe what they said,
but I finally grew up.
People are full of **** and say
anything that will get them laid.