I breathe starlight
under a sweet winter rain
No scent so swollen
can impart the pain
No skin as wet
as eyes of fear
and yet the moment
is crystal and clear

Rock of the ages
Blues in the night
Sing sad praises
until you're a worn out sight

I drink the music
in a forgotten old pub
No wasted beats
for hearts that spurn love
No throats as dry
as those who won't speak
yet no candid lie
can work it's way free

Banter box broken
A walk or a wobble
The speechless unspoken
on stones that they cobble

I gather the pieces
and smooth out the edges
How useless all of it is
Pennies each fetches
Yet I've an eye
for words such as these
I dig into the lies
and find memories

Scraps for a rhyme
A rhythm from cacophony
Hold your jukebox dime
This muse isn't done with me

Here a note and there a pause
I jot and jostle and sip and spill
I draw the purpose on the cause
and scribble down a deeper will
Until the shavings lay on the floor
and I've sculpted something grand
Perhaps the rum sifting in my core
met the artist in my tired hands

Perhaps the glory is not through
using my useless winter pen
Or maybe this is my last and true
symphony at life's own end