the breath of the candle's flame

 



collecting small
things:

the thoughts
of gnats,

conversations
between the
deceased,

lost teeth,

but it's as useless
as dirt beneath
fingernails
now.

wondering if Chopin
knew about the
music of
sadness,

not sadness for the
sake of sadness,

but sadness that burns
with the fire of
creativity.

Rimbaud was a fraud
and Hemingway is
a ghost writer
now,

Morisot painted by the
numbers while Paris
gave a blow
job to
art,

but it's as meaningless
as being born
dead,

and the years roll on
like some savage
invading
army,

taking the grounds
of my life inch
by bloody
inch.

open the windows, throw
out the books, the
words, the
poetry,

and let them all fall
like saints from
grace,

I am left with wounds
where once words
lived,

It is extraordinary terrifying how
unremarkable everything in
life can become if
you live long
enough.

blow out the candle's flame,
bring the pennies, gather
flowers and say; lo
farewell, lo
farewell.