Poem: House of Pain.

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The hell you left me to,
is as cold as it is lonely—
No fires burn here,
only the smeared clouds of smoke,
You’d think they’d be more
environmentalists in hell, tree hugging each other…
I digress, distraction is quenching here,
Here, where time is static,
and the radio wails only songs of sorrow
consoles of a pain that is erotic,
and in the absence
I find that there’s no pain of the spirit
that the body can’t quench
Problem is, hell, this hell,
is as dry as your bones of humor.

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