Dancing in the dark (poem)

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Moon is supposed to rise

the night air, chills the flies

A cricket slowly rubs its wings

The silence broken by the sound

A strong youth races home in the chill air.

His highest gear as he peddles hard.

A young-old man, bad news as his best friend grows so ill.

A liter of vodka, in the night chill.

A missed stop sign and a broken heart.

A bent bicycle.

Another family torn apart.

In jail he sits while his love draws her final breaths

One empty man

One empty bottle

Two empty deaths

Prison

A life a wreck

Release

On a winters eve

The moon is supposed to rise

At Hell’s Kitchen, Spicer Meadow road

Standing on the precipice 

Two empty bottles

One empty man

No heart

He flies.

His gift to the world, a vertical epic

They once called him Doctor of Art

Then they called him monster,

who tore lives apart

Now they called him dead.

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