When I Look At Death

When I look at death
I don’t bow,
I almost feel powerful,
anger in C minor,
joy for the starving,
when I look at death
I only see glory, glory, glory,
holy triumph over eternity.
I drink once more,
I smoke once more,
the hazy clouds dissolve,
a faded layers of existence,
reflections of blank voids,
resurrection of the dead,
anarchy for the sleepless,
melancholy for the angels.
When I look at death
I also look through death,
the wine drips from my hand,
my blood filters the stars,
when I look at death
I don’t bow,
I continue smoking, drinking, fucking,
I continue through the desert,
through shadows and moonlight,
through lost generations,
through abandoned empires,
through massacres for peace,
through last words and final amends,
I run around in circles
and then do it all over again.

What’s left?

The whiskey settles,
the streets puke,
the cars dance on severed bits of time
and I stop,
stop, 
for once, stop,
nothing at the top or the bottom,
the walls wrap me,
the clouds swallow my soul,
I walk by the water
and lose myself,
this night has gone on for days,
these walls have laughed a bit too much
and said far too little,
but I hear it now, yes,
I hear my symphony, the choir,
the ballerinas, the audience,
blank in expression, colors of youth,
I see the light dancing on the flesh,
I see your smile carved in stone,
I see myself infinitely,
I hear my symphony,
the drums slowly picking up speed,
and then a slow stop,
a trumpet howls,
and then, eternity.