BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
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