Pulp Poems

The poem

There lie a poem half finished and never to be.
It lay still yet complete in its own right on a table
It shares space with a lamp that offers dim light
On the page splotches of despare can be found where the page's dye mends together and the page is dampened
As the creator young and pale
Sits motionless on the floor slouched against the backdrop
The gray monotone shirt speckled with red seamlessly melts to wall
With its own crison droplets of desire and hope left to dry and puddle on the ground
The moonlight barely breaking through the boards
Highlights the beads making them shimmer into a dark scarlet lake of dreams............
There lie a young man half finished and never to be
But complete in their own right on the floor
Where the moon offers dim light.