To Bill Manchester
Fellow poet and friend
Who led a sometimes harsh life
For such a gentle soul.
Last seen in his deterioration of body
At Franko's on a Saturday night.
Who died too young, too unfairly.
There are memories of monsters, ain’t there Bill?
They float on the air and flaunt us our past;
‘Bout a future never was.
Fiends in the fields of our heart,
Wave like ghost grass with each puff of breath
Poison blades that sever us.
Memories of monsters,
Ain’t there, Bill?
Secrets of the soul,
Hidden crimes hoping we lie.
We’re poets truthful to the end, ain’t we Bill?
But it’s you float on air and I lift the glass
To the gone days of cleverness.
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