Tattered Soles

The repetitive meowing of the scrawny cats,
the humming of the trains engine and the golden sun,
greet the starving musician that once lived.
Once lived a life of pleasure, sense and dreams,
In a world of music and soul.
Now he cleans the remains of squirrel bones,
His pants ripping at the seems.
Picking away at the meat with his long and
Grotesque fingers, as if every bite
Brought his closer and closer to the fame
He once indulged.

Dazzling white pants, are now black as night
his leather boots are nothing but tattered soles
which surround a foot plagued by age and disease.
While his body disintegrates as a banana peel in the summer,
The mind never rots, as it fights the daily battle of encroaching insanity.

His thin and blisted fingers reaches for his pipe,
which lays on a pile of hay and urine soaked rags,
he strikes a match and sucks in his final breathe,
the blue tobacco cloud engulfs The Great Mr. West; King of Jazz
it shields him from the horrors beyond,
protecting him from the creatures of his imagination,
With a mighty exhale, he releases his smoke.
It bleeds out of the cavernous hole; a cloak of relief
with blinding flashing waves of heat, he finally rests in peace
drifting into eternal slumber among the yard cats and rats.





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