we are not writing poetry for the fuck of it

you are becoming a fickle disease
cracked and yellowed words with no definition
empty, the glossiness has gone
tarnished spoiled catheter

I heard you were writing a letter to a friend
will you explain how roses can be grown
out of asphalt?
will you explain the excitement of a dream,
of bars, of silhouettes and shadows
you once tasted, fought & photographed?

you have weathered well I guess
and I have not been kind
(but I do not apologize).
your kind never saw & blurred
the beauty and significance
of life transferred carbon to graphite.