I found you my kind lady,
you were my savior,
my voice of sanity.
Love tragedy left us feeling empty,
just wishes and gestures of fairy tales magic we would not have.
Sin, gin and regret,
the poet’s drink.
Some men love the war,
some men love the drink,
some men love the ladies.
The writer loved the beginning,
the writer love the midnight dance,
the poet love the story and the new kiss.
Do the wordsmith, need the fatal ending?
He told the pretty lady,
who wants to live forever?
When the body become tire,
when the poet can’t remember the taste of the ambrosia wine,
when the words cannot be written no-more,
what is left?
When the gladness of hope is gone.
What is left?
Did Kosinski and Hemingway see sweetness in death when life became sour?
I told death many times, not yet.
I need one more story,
one more kiss,
one more time, knowing the feel of the coldness of the Big Sur sea on my bare feet.
Once I was fearless and I was afraid of nothing.
Now old age, scared me.
Pretty lady looked sad and she whispered.
Love tragedies, war, drink and the chaos of love.
The writer’s salvation,
you can’t stop death,
you must honor death like you honored life dear friend.