Two Crowns And A Knife

His body wobbles in a waltz of near tumbles,
On cobble stones his feet gobbles the street
while his mouth stumbles on mumbles,
It’s a verse, or curse, or worse, it’s poetic gibberish,
A stutter doused in red nectar sweet
and a sweat that’s venom and feverish.

There is saliva splatter inside his cheeky chant chatter,
Saturated word and rhyme spat from his memory tatter
that is as soaked as his grey matter,
Noisy babble quietens to whispers for only the closest of ears,
Soft prose flows
with angst and hurt from a man beaten by the years.

Mind material pent has finally frayed the flesh hem
and has broken him,
His face ashen as he spits the words through phlegm
in some cryptic hymn,
He catches the prose as to ration those that he has not penned yet,
For he has little poetry to spare, spend, or
lend, for they were gambled like a bet.

White gnarled knuckles encase the words adhered,
Geld to his fists in chiseled welts as if those words had seared,
They were unheard laments
that now exist on the skin in metal weld,
How long could these increments persist,
and how long could they be held?

They are carnations cocooned by his rock incarnation,
They would be expelled unabashed just for validation,
A peace offering to any who pass his bench and being,
As part insight and part redemption to quench this man’s wellbeing.

This sorrowful genius’ addiction is rife,
Where salvation pleas are now replaced with a knife,
Held tight to release the crown from his forehead,
It digs more then it cuts
until there’s two crowns and a whole lot of red.

The release has put a spell upon the drama that unfolds,
He stands with gestures animated as he shakes the bloody knife he holds,
“And I dub thee sir, sir… Sir what?”
“Sir, I don’t know my name… I just think I forgot.”

The drunken slur is less coherent with the crowns laceration,
A bottle of wine filled with blood he downs in celebration,
Swelling visions to collaborate a memory now in rot,
The telling incisions on the temple are to hide the things he had forgot,

The nectar dropping in the bottle was more cause for alarm,
But the poet drunk and drowned had no concern for harm,
The bottle drunk and he is incriminated by his loitering,
Adieu, my sweet night, for the mind is busy self and cell slaughtering,

The thoughts subside and he is finally blind, quite still and absent,
As the divine wine diminishes the mind, it replaces the will and his lament,
A quiet like those whispered words castrated from his mouth and hell,
Cut into pieces and spat into a bucket, and lowered back down into the well.