In the shadows of neon lights, he roamed,
A poet of the streets, a wanderer unknown.
Life’s rough edges sculpted his prose,
Through whiskey haze, his true self shows.

With every night, a new tale to tell,
Of love, loss, and the city’s spell.
Words flowed like rivers, fierce and free,
From the broken heart of Bukowski.

He danced with demons, embraced the pain,
Found beauty in the mundane.
A cigarette, a drink, a typewriter’s clack,
His life laid bare, no holding back.

In the grit and grime, he found his song,
A voice for the lost, the weak, the strong.
Charles Bukowski, the poet of the night,
A beacon in the dim, unyielding light.