Euphoria Crashing


The Poets and Vagrants all in one space

The space being that of drudgery

But soon the Poets–they grow new wings

Wings which bring them fruit

More oft–the fruit of misery

Yet fruit of eternal salvation

The Vagrants simply dwell

In vacuum

The Poets–they clasp on to euphoria

The level of the saints and hypocrites

So they pen their words…in verses of gold

Euphoria–pure bliss

The Vagrants–they keep drifting, gliding hovering

All past the state of ecstasy

All in the toil

But the Poets–they move swiftly


But all that has a rise must come falling down

All that shows flight must stop

All that flows comes to rest

In a whiff the wind can turn into a blizzard

The dust into a storm

A Poet into a Vagrant

So it happens…the falling

And there is sound…noise, music

Euphoria Crashing

The unheard and the heard

So the Poets and the Vagrants—

All in one state

The state they call misery

They dwell together, one apart from the other

Both in union.