Tuesday 8/01/2006 12:28:00 AM

I didn't say goodbye. Just hung up. It never seemed to matter what I'd said. Only whether or not I was listening.

From my little room where the lights don't breathe.

boasted the habits. so proud of my degradation. sucking the irony off of its popsicle stick. until all the sugar was gone. and only the tasteless juice remained for this apathy to quench.

in little rooms with walls too reticent. gaze of windows gone. i thought i might want to start over, but it turned out more satisfying to simply give up.

in little whispers from mouths unwashed. the taste of hope still poisoning fragile plates. as they shiver and quake with the meals we've missed.

in little rooms without much lighter the hunger frets its strut. Where the darkest corners of the stage can only mimic the fury of what's already been said.

in my little room. with my little sermons from preachers made of forgotten friends. i burn my tiny candles made of flesh. and wait for the puddles to reveal a way to retrace my steps.

i'm not lost. i just have no destination.

And no one wants to go there with me.

0 comments:


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