Tuesday 6/05/2018 11:18:00 PM

the distance taps us on the shoulder and says we're already there. the miles whisper in our ear that we never left.

the places have no names. they're only vague thunder echoing from a fading storm. transparent bridges over imagined depths.

we go softly into that roar. wearing every face like an alarm. letting the wind collapse the walls rather than opening the doors.

running out loud. running on the dents in our feet. high on the crisis. swift with rage. chasing a hunger that's impossible to feed.

selling our surrender for pennies on the dollar. building our bridges from deceit and skin.

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