I met her scribbling aphorisms,
on a grey morning i’d seen before.
Raindrops dancing in slate blue eyes,
half silent sorrow, half untold lies.
Amidst bodies on the barstools,
sinners in their pews.
A cancer in the cool blue air,
the stench of night old booze.
She wrote in search of laughter,
and meaning for her dreams.
Each heartfelt word a stillborn child,
each thought a prayer revealed.
We gazed across the vastness,
of three feet of wine drenched wood.
And felt a mutual sadness,
that shattered as she stood.
As teardrops on the sidewalk,
washed gold smoke from the skies.
The drunkard beat the trashcan lid,
In warning to the wise.
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