Confessions of a
Dead Head
The years of past
genius
are found in dark
eyes,
for watching, they
realize,
that all will be
but dust.
So stifling they
must
be all of their sighs,
allowing life and
all its lies,
to be as always preposterous.
For in their wearied,
red-eyed wisdom,
they see wants that
burn with desire,
that stack in pyres
from youth to old age,
in Islam through
Christendom,
fueling fires we
mortals must wage.
- J. J.
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