the writer’s suitcase
it spilled out onto the bitumen
like the bursting stomach of a consumed beast
the writer’s black suitcase
bleeding onto the pavement
where he fell for the last time
and the black moths within escaped
fled for cover in the light they’d been deprived of
witnesses and prisoners unto his pain
secrets into the wind
onlookers gasping in shock
the writer in a ball of terror
his state exposed to the world
and little immortality to come of anything
light shining on the darkest of journeys in the suitcase
nights of drunken ramblings
where the writer fell lower than ever
body convulsing
thoughts fleeing the open air
pages scatter amongst the breeze
the writer dies lying in a pool of his words
a mess of lies and truths
a crowd of condemnation and little comfort
finally a spectacle of his art
an external soul of tattered black cardboard
picked up in the ruthless breeze of the city
he dies like his ideas
in a bundle on the sidewalk
where the children find his writings in the gutter
and laugh them off as discarded letters of love