Friday 1/01/2016 11:41:00 PM

a circus of skin. broken clowns and arrogant kings. the sky is loud. the corner is silent. as we embrace the drowning. children picking at scabs. and hunters foul with carcasses.

there is blood. there always is. because it has to hurt or it isn't worth it.

it's tomorrow she said. her voice all onions and garlic. nothing changes. everything does. there is only the elegant surrender of our burgeoning panic. and entropy's casual insistence.

shallow blades in dense meat. search for the bone. the structure in so much death. long walks against the wind. finding the way back is always different.

driven by uncertainty. molested by science. her humanity is strained. the cure is a dose of the sickness. such is the wisdom of the classic protagonist.

no obvious villains. the conflict arrives in a syringe. full of both an antidote and a poison.

that is the beginning. that is the end.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.