Monday 1/08/2018 01:34:00 AM

how cold it gets is relative. to how warm it's been. eyes like ladders. skin like stone. all the empty analogs of time and circumstance. asking their questions in sobs and limps.

the barren tree. the fierce wind. each is a small marker in a vast ocean.

the clock accuses. the hours confess. time is a cage. we forge our keys from scraps of skin and feats of panic.

the miles consume us. scraps of meat spoiling in hunger's din.

the winter chews. seldom swallows. the foul of mercy's impotence.

the road grows narrow. the skin loses count. as our bruises multiply. and our crutches fail.

it's dark. but we can see. as the blood overwhelms our remaining bandages.

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