If I Wrote Neruda, Dreamed Yeats
If I could write the saddest lines,
or draw your eyes, from the vast, infinite sea
as Neruda, Monet, or Hemingway,
my words would topple these stone walls
and shear these towers of ivory.
But being poor I've but my dreams,
dreams I've bled, and wept, and carved
on bleeding wrists and blistered soles
along life's broken boulevard.
Discard me from your fairytale!
Banish me from scores undone.
These harmonies from younger years
grow shrill, whilst sweeter songs are sung.
And gasping through the cellophane
of childish whims and beauty's skin,
the waning sunsets of our minds
from red to blue, from green to grey,
grow cold in sepulchers within.
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