Alcoholic Poetry 3

how high the arc of pain
as it gathers above the manifold
of idling hearts;

in smothering clouds
thick with exhaust.

and poisons you wish
would keep their promises,
and kill what is left of
peeling flesh.

the swift flow of addiction
the onliest sound,
as you count the empty skins
your life has molted;

since the last time that
you dare count.

since every knot got thicker,
and darkness so much louder;

so that you could hear
everything and still
nothing somehow.

not what you consume,
frail reflection of your isolation;
what you are consumed by.

not what they would think,
not what you know at all.

just sun spots in your memory,
all darkness and speculation;
nothing real except the void.

more infinite than eyes can glimpse
or any amount of years could
ever hope to fill in.

all alone, each in our
various stages;
all hopelessly lost
in our personal mazes.

seeking no saviors,
only friends.

and this is the only
one that i've found.