Sorcerer he imagined days of virtuosity
those hours of maniac creativity.
Ladies and only ladies objected to his mighty chicken;
but never a ladies man, he was a bloke
Now as his mind became flat with hay
and ethered breaths as he lay.
Pancing back and forth in strange darkness,
gazed at the sky full of moons in naked starkness.
Mother stood in embellished wedding frock,
a chalky dream, it was never to be a cakewalk.
Midst cat droppings, and shattered dreams
he wished to defile a flower again.
But he was nothing but a Mad Man