An Ode To Lucy

He stood, frowning at the breeze
A handkerchief tied 'round his knee
In his hand - something once lost -
He held the Book of Misery

Between his lips - a cigarette
A present, somewhat idle threat
A part of him, a price to pay
Absurd factor of regret..

He had no more dreams that day
The wind had blown them all away
His muse had gone on journeys long
(A pleasant, rather cheeky fey)

If his pen lay on the ground,
His notebook nowhere to be found
He might fondly turn to strings
Refuge lay in those low sounds

Sounds that stirred a distant call
Of paint splattered on the walls
Of words upon a screaming stage
Of a bloom, impossibly tall

The Book, now hurtling past the edge
Had felt rather priviledged
At being cast into the void
Instead of crushing all man's pledge

The smoke's trail in the air
Fled from Lucy's breath of swear,
Floated on with news to us
Of our dear old Lucifer.