Remember me as I was on that night,
A cigarette dangling from one corner
and sweet nothings from the other,
Passing the emptiness by.
I was the young and innocent then,
Floating on the words of Sylvia
as if I had no idea,
Head still above the warming cauldron.
But those twinkling eyes are gone.
In the cold daylight they look
to the ground in the fearful winter,
Drowning in a swell of unwritten verse;
Remember me as I was on that night.
Remember me as the poet, who,
through his charm, could not speak of despair,
but only of the bleeding rose.