Tuesday, 31 December 2013


Cold thumbs, like bolts,
pressed into the crevices of my skull
keep my head together;
an expedient fix
for my recurrent rupture.
My tongue is somewhere in my throat
dancing a final waltz,
drunk from the life's it had touched,
thinking not of the hangover that
tomorrow's loneliness brings.
DeathI am no [longer able to survive
this vessel the Lord has intended for me,
give me any]thing else.

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