The boardinghouse burned down
Must have smoldered in the night
I regret that I wasn’t present
To experience the light
I’m ready to give to you a handful of ashes.
I’m sick now and unsurprised
In my bed I flail and writhe
Seethe with fever and I crave
Your dystopian sound
Its bitter grain, I’m nowhere-bound.
There is a day for which I wish to cry
And I may remember, or try to deny
It may have been a day spent
Kicking water from the dock
Then again it may have not.
And there are things I can’t forget
Trapped by the fence, alone on the swing-set
It must have been a day spent
Fifteen years ago
Or the night it made me shake beneath the blanket that you lent.
I am sinking just like you, my cynic.
I can hear your looming insect drone.
A woman would paint you with ashes
And still we are alone
The sense, I just can’t find it. Despite how much I’ve grown.
Limp on, your crippled shuffle and drag on, my blurring steps.
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- my prize
- hypothetical conversations with the cynic part IV
- hypothetical conversations with the cynic part III...
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