If I were a fly
that sat on the wall
watching the sad man
stumble and fall
Seeing him drinking
and popping his pills
Slowly he’s fading
from heroin thrills
I’d fly all around him
as he swats and he sways
and sit on the table
counting his days
Dance with the Devil
to his demon band tunes
A horrible concert
proclaiming his doom
I hear the man laughing
as he says his goodbye
Cursing the Devil
as he closes his eyes
An old man lost in the world. Pining for the lost art of pen to paper when creativity relied on the mind and not machinery. Remembering when a connection relied on touch not technology