Death screams sordidly
to those souls like me.
The spirit of a bloody shroud
empty above a lost cloud.
So lonely but for a day
when imagination goes away.
I ache with mourning dread,
always drunk. The whisper said
"A thousand unknown, who are you,
the evil walking, sad and blue?"
Broken pictures never leave.
Beauty is the young that believe.
Did the darkness live in you?
You must be a poet too.
10.7.17