Or, a vision in a dream. Four more, a farce? In Los Angeles I dreamt of Kubla Khan What did it mean? I could not plainly see. Porciúncula was ruined by man一 Modern days, where poets cannot be, No place for verse in this corrupted span. So thrice ten miles of scorched and barren ground, No hope, no joy, just drugs all around. Stripped of their skills, the masses wander deep, Tomorrow's promise lost, on a cracked tiny screen. Skyscrapers loom, then crumble from the steep, Maybe yesterday is all that can be seen. But why? I thought, disenchanted and grim, His words held no meaning, deaf ears like him. A strange piece that tilted reality's floor, What were we reading? A madman's raw score. Ramblings of genius or delusion caught? Perhaps I'm the other, my mind distraught. From my chasm, jaded envy burned and seethed, Why Coleridge?! Because he no longer breathed. A question formed by ego's bitter taste, I could be him, if I had fortunes to waste. With currency and privilege to tell Tales like his own, in which readers could dwell, Yet life permits no such indulgent dreams一 My talents drown beneath practical schemes. Those damned dancing rocks that mock and tease, I just need status to create with ease. But maybe I'm wrong, my thoughts in discord, I'm never wrong! My gift goes ignored. They never look back, and I can only shiver, My poet's soul drowned in doubt's cold river. I hope Samuel hears me from beyond, He had the luck, wrote before the new dawn. The illusions of modern pleasure's quest, I float across dark Styx at his behest. To inform him, he is no treasure sweet, Just the maker of a maze without retreat! Hopped up on opium, his paradise rings, If I tried the same, they'd clip my wings. A damsel with a dulcimer, In visions I could never claim as pure. Poppy leaves and eternal shade, a cure? That is how I'd meet the maid entire, Singing of modern Cahuenga's fire. Could I relive the substance of past in me, His symphony and song, still, a sick mystery. I can never have that legacy, The present, disturbed and ever wrong. I could write with flair, a brilliant song, But I cannot afford the artist's price. And all who hear don't pay any due, Poets can't exist. Beware! Beware! His lethargic eyes, his unkempt hair, Why study this man, so weathered by vice? I can do that: living, yet like dead, But he had the time, and a feathered bed. And now, he haunts my nether Xanadu, A paradise I was not born into.
