Proof In Living and Carnations

What's found at the crack of an egg wonderin if I have somethin', anything left to say.. bright yolk or young generations hope.. open your mind, try if you can whether breakfast or prayer for man. Y'know I go to visit the lonely in their lonesome lands.. sit a spell, hold their hands. Visit with Bukowski, well of course I would. A lit cigarette held in shears.. expertly placed beween the spring and the pivot point, tryin' to learn the meaning of the word poet. We're all stuck like swirling smoke between the spring and the dull edge, hoping for shear ecstasy in cut rapture like passing of the last carnation (flower for Mariupol). Searching for myself in spoken word just may've found it.. In verse of Cohen's Hallelujah, brought to life in an age of Buckley, an age of genius and beauty.., tho' perhaps a little short-lived.. proof there's so much more we can give.