last night I dreamt of dead authors
they had no souvenirs for me
save for the smell of cheap tobacco
and the echo of yesteryears from
a splintered gramophone
doomed to be tomorrow's
headlines in bold
because of writers like me
who tried searching for deceased words
from six feet under
instead of carving new letter blocks
out of concrete tombstones
to give birth to something more
than just a recycled obituary
save for the smell of cheap tobacco
and the echo of yesteryears from
a splintered gramophone
doomed to be tomorrow's
headlines in bold
because of writers like me
who tried searching for deceased words
from six feet under
instead of carving new letter blocks
out of concrete tombstones
to give birth to something more
than just a recycled obituary
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