The lights are awake.
Sleepy tired eyelids still burn;
Hot - the alcohol-fueled brain;
The hand shivers... fever is cold...
"Give us the Allmighty Power
of creation so we will serve you
forever", the paper and the pen said.
Two lips spitting red wine,
smells like blood.
The yet shivering hand writes fearful,
the angossy of not finishing its work;
A masterpiece, total crap, nobody cares
of the result,
mind is groggy, sharpen the past,
draw it carefully
on the bright white rectangle
lying on the table.
The roof-top palely shines,
covered by rain,
a black cat drowns between the draining pipes;
Young human skin bleeding inside,
disease, deep dry caughs howling,
oh, i see a cigarette,
nicotine-yellowed fingers holding it,
a shout in the night, fastly silenced
by the echoes of ancient ceremonies...
Thoughts stand still for a second,
heart pulsates slowly,
enemies smiling,
NO! NOT YET!
Last verses, almost unreadable,
fever is even colder,
icy tears of perspiration running wildly,
end of the poem and
...................
...The lights were still awake.
Who would have cared of another dead poet?