Thursday 11/07/2019 11:14:00 PM

the oxygen was heavy as we sold our remaining breaths. we searched for profit in the depths of our losses.

compartments. that's what we have. a means to reconcile the fractured whole. illicit bridges between truth and hunger.

their plastic fingers gripped the air. fragile spiderwebs against the wind. heavy boxes full of nothing.

the years lumbered through her veins. all needles. no drugs.  just the prick. the puncture. the blood. all pain and color. and some random vaccine that fails to cure us.

it's the distance that tells us. in stilted adjectives and incompetent thieves. it's lost. it's taken. but it was never ours too keep. we're not victims. we're opportunists.

it's the lies that keep us warm. as the winter closes its fist.

it's gravity that t makes us jump as we approach the edge.

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