By: Dillion975~

Fame rots with age,
Invention, mother’s abandoned habit,
Skeletons, once luminous, stand, only to ask why?
Spit fire upon me as mercy.
Allow me one more glory,
“The show of shows….”
But still, (STILL) I stand,
Without words, without sleep,
Praying for something, even rain,
Wishing for tears, and damning the hordes,
Through banquets at my protested compassion,
Further the weakness…
As the last salvation dries, slows and shrinks,
Two deaths, one waxed poetic,
A dispersed vapor,
Cool upon your dying lips.