POEM: Untitled.

My geography is infinitely more important
than my history,
it shows not life, but of man living;
of conformity casting it’s rut-threaded net of sighs
over these still delights
in which I strive to weave my past’s magic sights
And amidst the blur of noiseless
anguish, drowned out by careless living
these daunted days and silent
upheavals of night
a funeral of fumes and bottles I attend
and past and present
Like old lovers, protracting  and crying
how much the shadows have wept…


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