In the dim glow of a flickering neon light,
He wandered through the city streets,
A poet amidst the chaos and blight,
With words that danced to their own beats.

Through bottles empty and nights forlorn,
He found solace in his written lines,
A voice for the weary and the torn,
In alleys where the lost soul pines.

His pen carved stories of the unseen,
Of life’s raw edges, bare and true,
In shadows where dreams intervene,
Painting skies a shade of blue.

Yet beneath the rugged, weary guise,
A spark of beauty dared to rise,
In every word a world surmised,
The heart of Bukowski, unmasked, lies.