upon the autumn streets when the city is away on some lonesome quest for winter the man who sings his poems unravels his display and the neon spectrums turn to splinters and the nights are cold sometimes but never for his pages they don’t sway against this wilder of the
stage and the ageless battle cries I unearthed from my eyes no longer writhe because the singing poet is wise they said that love of mine won’t wither that time will bring a treasure trove of things and the shadows now are just a sliver but still it stings but it doesn’t matter when the poet sings under the smoky chimes of roll up cigarettes and rhymes beneath the ponds of makeshift filters he told me that my sorries were not really worth their weight sometimes and it was best to let them wither and though I’ve sung and rung those bells of innocence undone with the side of the sun but within his song I sail amongst the sounds where sunlight fell when my experience begun and when I’m weather-worn and the virtues of my mind have torn away and no such sounds won’t stray and if I keep my sorries they’ll not wither and time will bring a treasure trove of things and the shadows now are just a sliver but still it stings but it doesn’t matter when the poet sings and when this drifting debutante Madonna’s come of age and her days of youth are over she and I will both surmise that the poet’s song will brush aside this man just as the infant’s sorrows hold her and on the day that I am slayed and by the colors of my mind betrayed on the silence of the stage the poet’s song will set apart and turn to flames my weary rungs and set my phenomenons ablaze he said my charming death would wither and time would bring a treasure trove of things and the shadows now are just a sliver but still it stings but it doesn’t matter when the poet sings