Author: Vampyr Tears
A bottle in his hand,
He ambles down the hall.
A mess of hair,
And clad in leather.
He stumbles. Trips. Nearly falls
Yet even at his lowest point,
Flocking from miles around,
To touch. His lean and lanky frame.
To glimpse. Pure radiance that is fading beauty.
To breathe in. The musk of stale cigarettes
His glory days are gone.
Fading fast with the stars at dawn.
And drowning his sorrows in a case full of gin,
Just wont’ seem to cut it,
Comments on this poem/writing:
|Britney (18.104.22.168) -- Monday, June 13 2005, 02:14 pm|
I liked your poem good job.
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