Gray-haired wizards gave electric music to despair’s lonesome tone; we drank our ale from tall tin, and we listened– as the band played, and we later kissed, tresses pulled, then let slip ‘tween curled fingers’ grasp, white teeth nibbling– in a hunger, at last remembered, and within Midnight’s secluded palace, poetry’s chipped-sickle wraith, diminished, returned to its grave.
🙂