where do the dead friends go;
the ones that did not taste the actual death yet and at all,
but with such glory,
chose to kill what they had in their hands
instead of a magnified bouquet of egos
boosted, elevated by the taste of the now,
as if they found some beggar's love
basking in a pool of other bodies
tasteless, ageless is where they dine
with ghosts and fools toasting wine.
and in the morning,
fair enough is a mid-summer breeze
to kiss the eyes and blow the haze,
bring the phase
and chase the cloudy dream away.