Wednesday 12/14/2005 10:49:00 PM

Smoking the last of one more cigarette as against the darkness it teases its breath. Swallowing the last of the bottle's urine I know why they call it wasted. And how often it is.

Won't I wake up in the morning again, just like I always do? Hush the alarm. Waken the coffee and begin that tedium anew.

I guess I will if experience is any measure.

But sometimes I still wonder what color the grass is in different fields. How many shades of green they could impress. How brown they may threaten. Any if there is any color still to be found in all this gray.

Fondling the silence until it moans I wonder when I'll hear the sounds. I know they are there. Somewhere in this sprawling darkness waiting to be found.

It opens wide its shallow mouth and I slither down its throat. Cold rim textured with the flesh of regret. Firm shaft sweating against the friction. Antidote flailing against the disease. Until both are lost.

I'd always thought there'd be time enough. For whatever it was I was supposed to fix. But now I know there never was.

Sheltered in the margins are all the words the page once waited for. Puzzles that can't be solved. Missing pieces.

It's over, though it's yet to begin.

An intrusion of life is all that keeps me from.

0 comments:


| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2016. All Rights Reserved.