Running a finger upon the spines
Treasures of unrequited wit
It can be difficult to wear a smile
When you always feel like shit
Fingerprints on the dusty shelves
Disfigured; in need of some rest
Looking for inspiration in the pages
Slowly drowning despite doing my best
She’s alone
In spite of all the adoring eyes
Propped firmly on the pedestal
A solitary witness when lust dies
She’s been up there in isolation
The heroine of the bell tower
A slight teeter in her stance
Still defying gravity on the hour
Her alabaster skin shines at night
A chance to quietly & decidedly atone
The decadence of her marble bust
Fingerprints on her heart of stone
Another teary-eyed princess
With a vintage, tarnished crown
Yet, I cannot stop worshipping her
For who’ll catch us, when we all fall down
But from this distance
I cannot properly love her
It was a one-eyed kind of morn
With evening’s festivities going awry
I scrawled out all I could remember
Once a gentleman, turned drunken guy
Slight images of a lovely form
Olfactory sparks upon my brain
Sketching the party’s guest list
But no new faces could remain
Racking my skull for a proper memory
Writing down every & each detail
Compiling a list to rediscover
I’m trying to think, but it’s to no avail
A faceless gown with affectionate gloves
Somehow my mind is able to recall
Cognitive fragments begin to linger
Clouded out by last night’s alcohol
Scenes slowly begin to return
I believe we’re out on the dance floor
An embrace of smoldering desire
Yet I couldn’t figure out any more
Scraps of notes spread before me
No identity to place upon the truth
Scant reason to be shy in my search
Basking in honesty of my lapsed youth
Cobwebs have been sparsely lifted
Won’t think of her in the past tense
Her ghostly touch encourages me yet
We shall meet again, I firmly sense
To hold her with determined spirit
Seems fantastical at this sad rate
Yet she’s left fingerprints upon me
Remaining until I succumb to my fate
Disturbed themes & distant thrombosis
A hitch in your giddy-up when it’s time for tea
Transcendental visitations
From dreams may come answers to our makeshift reality
Pouring over the brackish tomes with devotion
Gentlemen & ladies of letters; luminaries of thought
But truth doesn’t cure our limited capacities
Bare harbingers of the illiterations we’ve wrought
We’ve taken ill in our posh-marked libraries
Leaving fingerprints on memories we loved the most
We maunder through our raging debates
Knowing full well they’re all books about ghosts
Darkness creeps in on our musty resolve
Syntax prescribed with an utmost surgical query
Descending by the light of our candelabra
If we survive, we’ll be counted amidst the weary
Captain Q 