Drunk on a street-side monologue
He spoke perfectly from Shakespeare
He speaks perfectly every time
The dramatics in his movements
Deter a little from his honesty
But I'd rather have his painted stones
Than nothing from him at all
He's a fire running after demise
A shaman frantically recalling a chant
In the wrong place at the wrong time
I watch him incinerate my despair
But he didn't mean to get involved
Didn't assign meaning to each word
The way I did, and do, and shall
And I watch his hollow eyes watch me
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