Salvaged from and Old Notebook #2

a poet fall-away landslide
a renaissance charriot breakdown
subterrainian hamiltonian
whispered regrets sighed like mayhem
pointed boots kicking dust into their eyes
a skeleton gown draped over the stage
black magnetic hypnotism
and a ghost-like glow from his eyes
long painted eye shadows
like discs in the center of the sun
he falls away into a trance
leaving lovers and wanters behind
like a stone of unimagined momentum
who lays waste to conservatism
and women weeping who want to hold on
green-like transcendence
and falsehood's hopes
a carry-away
a cast-off
speak to him, but speak to him really
people who are really real
are impossible to know
loved by everyone but known by none
like a knight errant in his glittering armor
like rocks on a grave
like a mind who hopes to create
did he want to write great songs?
how not?