The city enters its blue phase,
and much like Picasso,
I follow the cityscape in the the
doldrums of a haze.
Lack of enthusiasm,
my writing slinks along
in monochromatic shades.
Prostitutes, beggars and drunks,
sober after last night’s escapades,
stroll through my stories,
ones I’ve scribbled on street tiles
washed clean in night’s rains.
I’ve made a funeral procession
of a previous parade,
and like the sulking skyline
and those artists gone blue before me,
I don’t know if this mood will
stretch for hours or days.
At 3 am, I lie awake,
for there shall be no dawning,
of the sentences I’m creating.
Perfect prose
suiciding within a troubled brain.
I find my seat at the bare table,
a nude mother
with no future hopes of
monetary gain.
And those that loved me
cannot stomach
the blind poet
with baggy eyes
staring through the
tempered windowpane.
Yard Sale of Thoughts 
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