if Bukowski was a prophet

You're onto something here
it's true
but you know it doesn't matter
you're too old
too out of bounds
you can't change that
Too much time has eroded,
too many hours
have worn you down
Fresh faces have no clue
they see what they want to see
not this dying warrior sage
this prophet thief
this vagabond who thinks
his poison is medicine
I have a few ideas left
God willing
I can play them out
but we all know
don't we
I have played the fool
for a pittance
I have abandoned the right path
for pennies
I have run marathons of sin
If Bukowski was a prophet
then I have sat at his feet
and come up empty
I am out of time and out of gas
on this dirt road to nowhere.