my journey

I'll live with my passage
as the melancholy plays its slow
faded drums, guitar
raw sax and the Soul of music
aside the suicidal sultry crooner.

Maybe smoke although it is against all morality and spirituality
to maintain a neurotic numbness of the mind
to appreciate the silent moments frame by frame.
Of course the fog against the lights from the small chandelier must overpower.
I also need to maintain a stern constancy of societal insolence;
of nature, everything humankind indulges in.
And adopt compulsive depression.
I thus attain calm as pitifully sweet as licorice.

Alone no longer becomes something lonely.
I read and meditate on aphorisms on life beside a lamp,
Of love death and god.
With a greater open heart than I have for the bible
Beer at hand to intoxicate purify edify.

My tableau depicts a modern O'neil.
Fate as clear as the Turners.
I possibly suffer their fatal illness too.
Yes. That’d be good.
And I’d love to get drunk on write.
I die then, as a true artist to myself who should never be seen
~nor heard.

No longer lusting to be emancipated or fixed, I drift.