My muse – he died. He drank himself to death.
Autopsy said, he did a lot of drugs; had sadness in his head.
He was found pale and cold, eyes dilated, booze on his breath.
His corpse covered in crumpled paper, he died, writing of the dead.

Cut me open, blood and guts, can you see more than skin deep?
Disembowl me, can you see the forest for the trees?
Pull my intestines out, do my guts tell secretes you coudn‘t keep?
Scour my remains, and try to set yourself free.

Know my muse died alone, screaming to the empty silence.
The wrath of loneliness,  drove him to insanity.
I listened to him argue with himself, as he tried to hide his violence.
He spoke to the mirror, and said “media, its all vanity”

Cut me into pieces, bake my heart and brain in a pie;
Eat it thankfully with a grin,
Close your eyes, taste and savour all my lies.
I  smile as you eat my fat, you were looking thin.

Ron bergquist
October 2014


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