Sunday, July 10, 2011

Breaking Point

Old Matchbooks
worn and empty.
Thick green glass ashtrays,
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

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