Sunday, July 10, 2011

Breaking Point

Old Matchbooks
worn and empty.
Thick green glass ashtrays,
spotless
and smelling of bleach.


The man I once knew is
hiding from me
pacing in the back of my mind.


I find myself trying to reason
with hallucination
debating with a sickness.


There is no secret pack,
there are no more cigarettes dancing
in the bottom of some deep desk drawer.


There is no flask in a hollowed dictionary
there are no answers in bottles.


There is only some bizarre faith
in the next
word.



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