Bad Jokes that Make Laughter

in white rooms,
And old Sammy’s writing tomb
Thoughts that loom,
Of days once blooming
Before losing.

Perchance the silence
Will turn to talking
And walking,
For the sake of stalking
A few hours more alone,
Yet together.

Canine physicians,
Those living musicians,
We danced a night away to
Like Marvey made those Irish do
With lives so sad
Yet inspiring-
The urge to retire,
In someone’s arms,
Or someone in mine.

That bastard,
Cast so far away
Decided not to stay,
This fool, named I
Made beauty cry
To try,
In vain,
As was known,
To romanticize loneliness
And pain.
To what gain?

To remember
Hammock rides,
And the passing tides
Of pages
We young sages had shared.

But one in particular,
Still drunk on rage
At no one,
For nothing,
But the self
Cries for help
And gets still,
Beyond his fill,
Of what is deserved.


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