he wrote about a flaming furious
moon
and angels with happy cruel
streaks
he wrote about eternity
gone too soon
and birds with fangs inside
their beaks
he wrote about black childhood
fears
and about sparkly-neon outer
space
he wrote about dead men’s dried
up tears
and living heroes sipping
on disgrace
he wrote about epics in unknown
tongues
and about feelings never
ever felt before
he wrote about gods with
human lungs
and about nothing behind a
closed door
he wrote about peace raring
for a fight
and how perverted horror
could be art
he wrote when all he wanted
to write
was about his fucking aching
heart.
ram cobain
