I See the Dead People
I always listen to the mutterings
as they shuffle by
The disheveled genius
composing words that gently
hold emotion
The artist never rests
for works remain incomplete
that hope of perfection
lost behind his eyes
The dancer in the rain
hides joy in movements between the looks
of disdain from strangers passing
The gentle notes that tease tear to cheek
from voices never caged
The alone who wear it
without choice
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