By: Ashley ayran lung Shun petr kenne G.
Ayran and the death of summerHe silenced the loudness
Of that which was not there
For inside
His heart:
Poetry lay bare.
He is a man of nature
And his eyes well up
Each time he remembers
What they did
To his life.
Fortune has no meaning
And screaming
Does nothing
To satiate
The hunger
Of his thread bare soul.
He is erect
At the thought of shadows
He is humbled
At the thought of beauty
For certain is he
Beauty is something
that shall never again dwell
within his poisoned psyche
His alms cup is empty
His whisky has run dry
He sits alone,
A dark street corner
A puddle
A muddy notion
That a man once lived
In the shell
That
In its perfect state of decay
Holds nothing.
