They call you the world’s 

    most tragic artist, 

    filling heights with spirits; 

On a strange hour

    unannounced, unplanned for, 

    like some over-friendly guest, uninvited; 

Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings, 

    where we had shoulders

    smooth as gentle clouds. 

No more money. No more fancy dress. 

Your ceiling kingdom seems by far the best, 

Until its other side reveals hades’ fire, 

    chaos, pain, loose obedience

    to a blind law. 

I will not go. 

    I prefer a meal with friends

    to a feast with foe.