Future Eulogy For An Unknown Elderly Poet

Poetry isn’t what’s written
And then left to wither unread— 

It’s the rose you picked still
Fresh in the dead of winter, dedicated

To the life you led.

Dandified Melancholic Soul In Search Of Itself

—“If the shoe fits, wear it.” 

Prolonged darkness in manner becomes
A burden lighter to bear not because
You become accustomed to it,
But because it becomes you better.

Free As A Bird

Think of the wind 
With nary a care 

In the world and you 
Carrying no name. 

Speculation, Ltd.

Where the world was 
Already over the end, 
And in deep

Shit long before you went 
Ahead and gave it 
What it lacked the least— 

Another plunger. 

Blasphemous Ephemeral Mortal

God is running late

And the poor man bursts

Because he can’t wait.

—Greek proverb

God,

               Everything in

               Good time you say,

I say this

               Damn specious life flies, so

               Will your precious lies, what

               Say you to that?