My friends, the end has come,
the journey complete, the eye
of the tiger and needle have
joined as one, slipping
through he leaves this world.
Sick and tired of being someone
else, like a chameleon colors he
blends into obscurity leaving his
soul to attack the world he lives in
with a fierce determination to reach
out to others.
Lost he’s been in the dividing
shadows that mask his pain,
the bottle near his side.
The darkness hovers over his
shoulders, he walks with a
solitude, forever lost in written
word, he sits upright in his
chair, the quill at its ready,
the ink overflowing in his well,
the ghosts coming forth, the
skeletons let loose, he hides
Into the night he mellows
remembering every hidden story
that haunted his past life,
blackened inside, torn like a
ripped curtain from his stage.
A lost man, with words he lingers
awhile and plucks them from his
Muse who disgusts’ him at times
moments of silence, personal dreams
he wants to share, yet is halted by
this sarcastic Muse who stiffens
his upper lip and stares the stare
of arrogance towards this poet.
He is shaken, bewildered, forging
like a wild animal through the dark
of night, and perched forevermore
his Raven awaiting his departure
from his realm. Lurking always,
pecking at his side, blackened by
his crushed pages of blankness
that whispers for him to continue
to scribe behind his chamber door.
Oh this man so diverse and depressed,
yet breathes shallow from his filtered
mind. Please let him go and remember
him I’m begging you, for who he was, a sad
man, a hollow soul filled with sorrows.
confused, lost and amusing to his
Lay him down to rest among the small
people, the lost ones, the infamous
writers who bled each word they
felt and shared. He will go unloved
to these demons below who await
him with glee and rubbing hands
that sweat for his arrival to Hell
below his feet.
© Copyright by Vincent Moore. All rights reserved