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Poem: February Eighth


half-eaten remains of the day
stacked dishes reeking of slime
stench of living greeting the dawn

I should take action
scrub it; clean it;
wash it away
instead I stare
at the walls
at the floors
at nothing at all

fridge full of furry mold
eggs hatching alien life
pineapple fermented

I am frozen here
unable; unstable
waiting to fall
motivation is
somewhere
elsewhere
gone from this home

they will come
later today
bundle me; trundle me
carry me out
out out
out and away
where I am going
no one can say

it’ll be a happier place
it’ll be a happier place
it’ll be a happier place

and this one can burn
burn to the ground
see how the flames
dance all around
prancing and licking
and feeling just fine
the heat of the moment
freeing the past

here they come
here they come
see how they run

it’ll be a happier place
it’ll be a happier place
it’ll be a happier place

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