Origins Of Portes

I'd take the black gamblers hat,
with a life like that.
In 1930's Chicago, seen a man
dive from a sky scraper;
To his death, ney......
his immortality.
If craziness can drive a man
over the edge,
what questionings of sanity
when he walks from the grave?
A suit case in hand
once full of files
and yet now, through his laughter like a loon
he explains
it's filled with smiles......
Smiles of faces
he wears unto the nights
and grins in,
fresh cut skin
staring....into oncoming head-
lights.

By death be the doors
and those eyes that opened
full dark,
he ascended those heavens
and hells
to something far worse,
for him but a job
for us myth readers,
thrill seekers
we'd call it a curse.
I have this leg to stand on
a write, so to report,
when he whispered in
midnight's ear.....while growing
wreak with fear
he must've
smelled the stench
and knew I was the sort;
Stretched out slithering
behind decades
of faces masquerades,
his twisted tongue to spin these tales, before simply disappearing....fashionably
tipping black gamblers hat
onto, through the portes.

I had no time
of my life to think
head was filled with legend
my blood used for ink,
Written by
yours truly, and an
illustrating murderous swine;
Toll man was the eyes last sight
laid to rest among fertile dirt,
authorities can now
put true fear into fright
after finding my body
along side.....life's work.