the writing is on the wall

[revolutionR]

sometimes a poet is like a newspaper jacket
walking in the rain when the night comes
who goes into the night like a found book

whose pages are like ghosts
through which is seen ghost words
flapping in the crying wind
it's like trying to see stars through words

the poet arrives at this juncture of junk
looking for answers in the galactic gutter
thousands of years falling like ancient leaves
to drift along on the river of time
through clock suns on the horizon

the ten thousand things manifesting
like neon signs in a drunken sea of lights
sinking into a void of mirrors spinning

all on a second hand typewriter of life
through the silent streets of writing
as wild music blows through the hole
in the writing on the wall

like an empty lamp
held up by nothingness
through which the moon appears

the poet exists like a rain drop
dropped into the ocean of words