It was strangely cold
On that September day
When the rains came
And they took a mad man away
And the world will weep
When they find his soul
Stripped and stricken
By blows of
Unlucky.

And with studied abandon,
We all lose
Our trains of thought sometimes.


Taken for granted
That wells of (s)inspiration
Never quite run dry
We waited for his mind
To fly from the catapult
Aimed at knocking down
Fortresses of typical.

It’s difficult
To see quite what he means
When he says
“I'd bleed a river”
And the river only screams
To everyone
In ink running down his fingers.

And what will come of this?
When he can’t dream
This into being anymore.
When it stops seeming
Common
And becomes a little forced.
Despite it all.

We all lose
Our trains of thought sometimes.


And the world says Please,
Don’t make us lose
A conversant conductor.
On a train made for a muse.

















*you know who you are. break out the pen, mister.