The sadness will last forever

I see Sylvia Path as she walks into the kitchen

whilst Ernest Hemingway in the corridor checks his casings

and I notice Virginia Woolfe pouring stones in her pockets.

I missed it when Marilyn Monroe bought barbiturates,

and caught only a glimpse of Kurt Cobain putting down his guitar.

Nearby, paint drips dry as my view of Van Gogh fades in the fields.

Alan Turing’s computer is a marvel, but he is punished

and they shut us down.

A rave wakes me up, it springs parlously forth, the lights crisscross as waterfalls of music cascade,

oh, what a party Avicci throws.

With a hangover Robin Williams complains I stole his line, but I was simply relaying it to Wallace.

Then I turned for a moment by the track as Emily Davison runs across the mud.

Shocked I find Hunter S. who takes a line and bows his pen, and Stephanie Adams checks into a hotel, or she felt forced into a box like Sandra Bland.

I stroll on a path where all is dark, where each touch is cold, and desperate hugs are dust;

I come to Charlotte who makes the case for chloroform over cancer.

Chaos comes as passers go, they have to make the boat, but I notice Boltzmann. I let him know about his constant, and his family were happy by the Adriatic.

Wanders onwards for the blue shimmer of the River Styx, it swells towards, I see them all aboard.

Charon asks if I plan to join them, maybe, I sigh, but let me catch the next one.