the latte is getting low
as the sun, it does arise
the clamor of the mourning as it goes & it goes & it goes
those who peer down
at the scribbles of my rhymes
as they wait in line, as they look down, look down, look down
into the depths of a life
to confound with the sun and its rise
to bleed crimson rays from the cutting of a knife, a knife, a knife
rays that drip with rage
that smear upon a page
imparting wearisome age blessed with days, with days, with days
that carve the path through time
steady, trudging through the grime
in the hope you impart some meaning in life, in life, in life