The Dying Muse

So there he lies,

..thinking..

a scooched-over haze

by the city-lake

Gazing painfully into

the smoke-screen tapestry

of some senior Banyans;

Disinherited,

disenchanted by

the Friday-flops

of Time and

Space.

And if you could catch the twilight at an angle

that cared

to find his face,

You might see the sun that has gone

without a bath

for seven-eighty months, 

(and counting...)

or if

 the 5:20 purple

were suicidal  enough to kiss

his burnt-out eyes,

you might see

a Blue-moth, caught

in a sand-storm, dwindling -

Or something (almost)

as pretty and

pointless and

Conveniently dying.