My Picture

What’s so wrong with this night?
Sky, moon and stars
all saying nothing.

And the clouds,
they often have something to say.
Free and unhindered…..full of Ginsberg and early Dylan.

Now hunched over art
eyes shut and silent.
Till death comes knocking at their door.

No noise, this time is uttered.
Out there, tends to diminish
a release of pleasure….. here to stay

An aged mirror, for us all
or acrid sweet smells of fallen thoughts?
So what’s so wrong with this night…..