Delicate Demolition

Old men sit in old bars drinking old drinks, smoking old cigars; Writers go crazy sitting and staring at empty pages, both burn away their youth, on and on through the ages- I once tried to write about life. For a decade, or three. A thousand pages, maybe more, when I realized I'd been writing with invisible ink. So, I gave it all up, understanding there will always be so much more that I can never know, or see. More than I can ever imagine knowing or seeing. Therefore, I have taken up dreaming: late in the depths of night's dark I wander through the universe, gathering dusty-diamonds, glittering across the galaxies; I hold the sensual-stars in the palm of my hand, drink from the beautiful-bosom of the Milky Way, roll and frolic in the weightless wonder of lunar-love... and then around sunrise the quirky cosmos rebuke me back, back to my world, where I awaken, returning to my lost and wordless pages- These are the delicate demolitions of living, destroying dreams and slowly tearing each man apart, until he is completely gone; even his words burnt away, ashes upon the wind, scattered unto the ends of the earth, for better or for worse- At night silent-stars look down, smile, and twinkle upon the old men, with their aging dreams, who sit there rolling their old poems up into cigars, and smoke them heartily.