THINGS FALL APART

                                                                The things I felt,

                                                            And the things I liked
                                                            I discarded them
                                                            All into them
                                                           All into the silent womb
                                                           Of some alleyway
                                                           I drowned them out.
                                                           All into the insipid
                                                           Blue of a static bay
                                                           You see how the barren life,
                                                           Conjugates itself into the impotency
                                                           With an wound more profound.
                                                           I have been walking for years  -
                                                           Throughout my empty regency .
                                                         
                                                           

                                                            Shadows in shades of a smog grey
                                                            Dance around a legend of a long last song.
                                                            A  silhouette  flutters among the dark
                                                            Of a juxtaposition of us,
                                                            Between the magician's floating mark
                                                            Trying to keep my soul, buried within
                                                            The comfort of your breast
                                                             I enquire a shelter, a place,
                                                             A nest for a conscience trying to take rest
                                                             But with a Dempsey  I display
                                                             That a gypsy has no home
                                                             Only a tired infinite walk.