Delicate Demolition Poem by Smoky Hoss

Old men sit in old bars
drinking old drinks, smoking old cigars;
Writers go crazy sitting and staring at empty pages,
both burn away their youth, on and on through the ages-

I once tried to write about life.
For a decade, or three.
A thousand pages, maybe more,
when I realized I'd been writing
with invisible ink.
So, I gave it all up,
understanding there will always be
so much more
that I can never know, or see.
More than I can ever imagine knowing or seeing.
Therefore, I have taken up dreaming:
late in the depths of night's dark
I wander through the universe,
gathering dusty-diamonds, glittering
across the galaxies;
I hold the sensual-stars
in the palm of my hand,
drink from the beautiful-bosom
of the Milky Way,
roll and frolic in the weightless wonder
of lunar-love...
and then around sunrise
the quirky cosmos rebuke me back,
back to my world, where I awaken,
returning to my lost and wordless pages-

These are the delicate demolitions of living,
destroying dreams and
slowly tearing each man apart,
until he is completely gone;
even his words burnt away,
ashes upon the wind,
scattered unto the ends of the earth,
for better or for worse-

At night silent-stars look down,
smile, and twinkle
upon the old men, with their
aging dreams,
who sit there rolling their old poems up
into cigars,
and smoke them heartily.