Now it's my turn to sit in a dive,
Wicked smoke clinging to my thumbs,
Drowsing beats of aging drums,
Spilled alcohol soaking wasted ash,
Two rats nibbling at the mounting trash.

Bourbon refracts differently than gin,
Clashing voices stir the unhealthy din.
Your voice did not undo the folded lie:
The open question is simply why:
You foolishly claimed there is no state.
Before such bold claims, let’s hesitate.

Your courage cooled your simmering rage,
As walking evils stalked the darkened stage.
Your fight became an affirming flame,
Who dares today to do the same? 
 
Poets gather; an impassioned team,
Slurring words now fill our dreams,
Saturated with tender thoughts of you,
A wasted poet, you brooded too.

Discordant music disturbs my reverie,
A silent madrigal is a curious song.
The soft light radiates a gentle hue,
A thin man coughs and I cough too,
Awakening to the dishonest decade,
Grown dingy, grown dark.

The public has abandoned, what all school children learn,
The reasons have become, a source of grave concern.

Feeble dignity, diminished at birth,
Imagines his arrival equates to his worth.
The son is freed from a loveless womb,
As warm and embracing as an icy cold tomb,
To share his brilliance and his cunning too,
Until justice arrives to collect its just due.

When dark Chanticleer’s rumbling midnight chime,
Awakens keen ears to a world of rhyme.
When opulent feasts and light follies depart,
Leaving Dante’s dark bow drawn deadly, drawn sharp.

Then shall white clouds descend into day,
Then shall white clouds darken our way.
Then shall red furies, demons and dust,
Swirl fearfully before us in twists of distrust.

Sharp diamond snowflakes, now drenched in blood,
Potent hot waters, threaten a flood.
Shivering angels have fearfully fled,
Chased by icicle daggers, rusty and red,
Daggers we meet when we meet with the dead. 

We breathe.  We freeze.  One of us faints.
The pious among us, shudder and turn,
Seeking salvation lest they must burn.

Suddenly, on golden chariots all aglow,
Warring ministers arrive to strangely bestow,
Razor-like jewels in ruby red gowns,
Exposing long-silent, hushed deadly frowns.

Morning emerges through trembling talons,
Skillful at healing thin feverish skin.
It is morning now, and now worn thin.

Church, temple and mosque, and their cloistered few,
Hasten to escape to the innermost pew.
Gypsies, Romans, the wandering Jew,
Embroider together and seek to renew,
Lonely love lost, in a field of hate,
A barren field full of waste. 

Searching souls now divine, 
No more lust and no more wine. 
Searching souls now greet their fate,
Dust engulfs them at heaven’s cold gate.
The pitiless souls, they asked too much,
And now hurriedly flee from the cold hallowed clutch.

Mr. Auden, we’ve never met, 
A source for me of late regret.
I may be wrong yet quite suspect, 
Mr. Eliot would reject, 
My supplication with hurried hiss, 
With back of hand I’d be dismissed. 
His furrowed brow would hold derision, 
For my moment for indecision, 
Leaving no leave for my revision.  

So Mr. Auden, hear my heart, 
Show me ways to make a start.
Teach the healing of our hearts.

Here I sit alone again,
I’m all alone without your pen,
Beside blank paper in my den.

Mr. Auden, I come to you, 
Seeking guidance on how you do, 
Explications of the whole, 
With unmatched ear for our soul.