This too shall pass

what happened of enlightenment
the sage of Copenhagen laments
the last of his blunts put out with distaste
weary, delusional, his light misspent
the best minds of his age rest in pillage

his eyes reaching out
far into the distance
his face flushed, his bust hell bent
the veins on these arms
holding back the unrest

the wind on his face,
the sun on his back
mistrust on his mind
poetry in his words
bebop trap-smack


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