descent
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It has been a whole year
And I have not seen you behind anything but the bottle
We used to hit the town and live life with our feet on the throttle
Friends in the village of spiraling ends
I was asked recently to demonstrate one of my talents,
& Let these written words be my color palette.
Contrary to my style, my actions speak lucidly through silence,
Are the Gods gift to the world.
Some famous and some just common folks.
Poets are descents of story-tellers.
All poets see a need, to be told.
Some poems are serious.
There is a mess, a clutter, a crowd that she found,
A thing that we run from that follows her around.
A climax, a friction, a trick that she believed-
A gift that she thought that she had received.
That moment when you feel your life is in shambles.
No longer the elasticity left in you
to be the glue.
All that's left is to grab a hammer and join the crew.
Hack a way at the remains.
