warRevised poem


I fell from the heights of ill-repute

To the obscurity of dusk

Where poverty found

Even my infamy lacking

For she stripped me cleanly of everything

My money, my inspiration, my pride

All found themselves upon her alter

Sacrificed unwittingly

For a few scraps of comfort

I found myself inconsolable

In my crimes

Drinking away the hours

In idleness


I spoke

Of the days of my greatness

As all men do

With an air of narcissism

That savors the memory

Of only key aspirations

Though I felt plainly my faults

I bore them poorly

Because nothing hurts worse

Than being called a god

And finding yourself to be no more

Than a pitiful excuse for a man

Who cannot inspire love

Or create anything of novelty


Once I had a voice

That stung with cynicism

A voice that threw open the doors

Of all that was dark and…

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My heart, a collapsed halo,

Upon which your bony fingers

Still impatiently drum

An abacus plucking out

Invisible adversaries

For us each to overcome


This poem is fictional and also short. Lately my poems have all been woefully short. I am even more scattered-brained than usual which scarcely seems possible.