Artist Esme

Is this really the place, for me to cry, even love has a name, life around him shows, the beat of time, nothing except this photo, soaked like the ocean main, the airways we fly, always open to rebate, what is left to know, when he hails the sky, another scheme or last throw, you once jumped bail, got out before time, beyond the spike of jail, your mask atones, for all the constant why’s, have the stars grown cold, it's not easy to explain, what goes on inside, your face ingrained, to roll the dice?