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.
1 comment:
Yes! This is good.
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