The Poet

He had a dream, from whence he could not tell,
It came to him as he slumbered here.
Ay! Ay! The joyous ride he knew so well,
From distant memories to him brought near.
The sinful vanities he cherished -
Splashes of red ink in a ledger bare
Were, by all his accounts, vastly nourished
By all his adventures: a life liv’d rare.
Symphonies of sound! Melodies of life!
His experiences were filled by lust,
His patterns – destruction, passion rife!
Ay! At his end, all this was rust and dust.
A barren creature without loving friends,
Unsightly life will bring unsightly ends.

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