You conjure artistic darkness to shed light on societies self-destruction. In death, your words did not die. You did not die. Ginsberg, you teacher of morals, artist of humanity, catalyst equality.
I stare at you. Your spectacled ruggedness touches my soul. My computer screen’s sheen seems to focalize from you. You are the foreground in any image. All others meld amongst generic irrelevance. I stare at you when in need of inspiration. You play across my mind in snapshots of images and words. You are a gift to my dreams. You are my friend, my mentor, my confidant and my future. I fear that your vision is becoming lost amongst wars, finance, orthodoxy and fear. I fear I will become lost amongst wars, finance, orthodoxy and fear.
Will I be destroyed by madness, conformity my end
Will I become a fragment in the enormity of trends?
I have a scheme to reach my dreams. To dwell amongst time’s minds
I’ll caricature a world in need, until sin’s chastity unbinds