The smell of death outside my door
#1
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I smell death outside my door,
so much stronger than before.
I ask the muse, why? Her reply,
"all things must die" she says,
still she loves me as before.

What has her love gotten me,
ashes in a moldy sack, and her
love without a dollar-fifty
won’t get me a cup of coffee,
which the doctors say
I can no longer sup, nor the sugar,
nor the cream. I might as well stay asleep,
for I can have that and more in my dreams.
How long after picking up the brush, the first masterpiece?

The goal is not to obfuscate that which is clear, but make clear that which isn't.
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The smell of death outside my door - by Erthona - 03-18-2014, 03:56 AM



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