In bed-
not writing for anyone, just writing.
The moon no longer exists,
the stars are swept under the carpets
and I'm heading the same way.
I can no longer think straight-
Set my soul to 33rpm
put on another Jazz record.
I've got the blues for broken poetry
all fragmented onto sheets
on an ill lit desk.
I've been left to make sense out of echos
After all, isn't that what a poet is meant to do?
-it's 2:09am-
I now truly feel deader than a dead butterfly.
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