old,  tired, stooped,
crippled by the loop
of the years,
damaged by time, rarely in line,.
walks the path of rhyme— 
a strip of green meandering 
into an endless cityscape — 
shadowed with all the discontents
of eternal youth:
no much use at compromise. 
sticks with the brain and eyes
no disguise
no inventory of things.
no library mind is mine.
wrecked by beauty,
stunned by deceit
shattered by time
very seldom a magician
very seldom in line
words passed
on by the strange aloneness
of death by suicide.