Sunday, March 31, 2013

Last Man

I write poems to inanimate objects
they ignore we sweetly (with lights out)
start time is quickly marred
getting uneasy (getting up)
asking for the watch
     to call it quits (or countdown)
walking away is much easier
who else is involved?
We'll never know (thankfully)
     My dreams are more real
each night I lie awake
     I have less control
so the coffee taints my breath
     the world my lips
     I am champion of death.

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