Poem: John Martyn

I couldn’t love you more he said.

He sang it in a song.

His voice so beautiful, the lines

so clever, so strong.

But he couldn’t love himself at all

barely knew where to look to even find any trace

usually searched near the bottom

of any bottle

only found whatever was left of himself

and completely off his face.

He died, nearly legless close to penniless, guileles…