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the pain
He did not wear his leather coat.
His black shoes and diamonds are dead.
Bone marrow and whiskey are in his head.
Shadows raced across the back of the wind.
Now he caught the tread of spinning wheels.
While there, some bizarre impulsive moonlit street reveals.
How he remained below the clamor and the display.
He heard all the loud guitars play.
As he felt, the steamy exhibitionists grin.
He was the poor man whom she loved.
She warned him not go to sleep standing.
As the north, wind blew cold with imperious reprimanding.
They were people who lived, and were so uncomfortable.
His behavior was less than acceptable.
All the while brittle brown leaves sailed by in the wind.
Moment by moment came the yellow wall of foul-smelling wind.
Piercing like long screaming spears of pain.
Before long, the pain found a way to eat at his brain.
