These sun-starved soul-sick lonely vagrant boys
commit themselves to only blank pages;
the words they spill, they leave as only ploys;
they say their verses are their own cages,
but each vagrant boy in silence rages
against his tepid urges and passions.
The settling dust accrues across ages,
atop each book, designed after fashions,
as each vagrant boy takes drugs as rations,
and calls himself a maker of the truth.
What use could they make of sweet compassion's
warm touch? For they are the world's uncouth,
adrift and wayward, cast to sea, lost in
dreamy tarnished glory, and far too thin.
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