look at the way the words form
in my shadow
a legacy of a silent past
rips through the dark and the sound
the streets get empty
bowels of the city shriek
hurricanes plow the roots of my
disaffection of anything human
as i sip a glass of warming beer
in a bar not far from the house
a once famous poet killed himself
i try to remember his lines in this
late afternoon
early evening sun
remembrance once was the way the dead
talked to us
but the dead behind me talked through
shadows on pale white pages
i carry around jealously
and today they say nothing
i take another sip
get up and walk towards the door
shadows dissolve
the hustle-bustle of the city surrounds me
i smile and drag my past out of the door
the dead in my pocket
no one notices an old man carrying
the over-bearing scars of
long-forgotten words
because it is an old city
and there are too many dead
walking on its streets at this hour
gargoyles laugh loud in rain
and gutters too quick to dispose the words
formed and forgotten in shadows too
"the dead can't complain, you know!" shouts
the poet from his apartment
and as i pass i whisper
"to the gallows
once more my dear friends
to the gallows..."
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