O Soul, Heart, Cigarette, Mountain, Red Wine, Chopin, etc. etc.

My friends are misfits. My life is one long waiting room of suffering, Poised for transcendence. I want to live in rose-perfumed rooms Where people chat narcotically over acoustic guitars. We’re outcasts, broken toys, Seers, peace-time warriors, troubadours made shy By digital irony. This cannot be our destiny! My muse’s soul is like an opalescent paving stone, Trod hurriedly over by hobnailed boots – Do they still make those?