Dead Poets Society

the embers from delight

form this fateful flight

of desires, disguised bright

autumns leaves are burning

zevons in his grave and spurning

peace and quiet, more like churning

curtis, morrison and elvis too

not forgetting cobain, cornell and the buckley crew

beauty begets pain like a moth to the flame

life finds you unawares

sometimes death does too

one may be dear

while the other's few

propaganda's like a glue

trapped in its grasp

your skin turns ice blue

poor you, poor you