Every month he sees a dead man who can't stop breathing.
Throwing in a cigarette of my own,
I haven't even cared about the angry quiver in his voice.
Tethers from sycophants pulled at the curtains,
And late-morning sunlight broke through the cryptic air.
The old people get sentimental and
Their serious soliloquies become more dilapidated every month.
Yesterday I wished I slept late,
Dreaming about the opiate if the masses.
We were casual acquaintances with paltry emotives,
Revived by answerless storms.
It came all at once and in a furious torrent,
Like God was mad and wanted to flood us out.
Woods of dreams and legends surrounded savants and chattels.
Staring with half-closed eyes,
Watching the blue and grey hues melt together,
I think we would have stood there until pneumonia killed us.
'*'
YOU ARE READING
Why You
PoetryJust poems. Some poems that I have written and others from the internet. If you would like to send me poems, I will dedicate that page to you. Or if you want to stay anonymous that's fine, too. Poems that I have wrote will have a '*' at the end. Pl...
