rerecording the Pagans Parables
apprehensive to the flush of cold stares
empty, blaring minds– Weird
as one cup of coffee sufficed
to repress emotions bared
raw and scared
in a toxic lust
we’ve grown to fear
despite former repressions
soulful, sinking regression
better to be empty than
enslaved by our oppression
soaring, blindly
above our depression
with wings drawn out
on golden bridges, glowing
at least the lost have caught the flow again
so low on cash, fives and tens
all ones, again
last pack of smokes
and I’m down to ten cents again
bad coffee stiffened and I’m sipping pale beans again
“why can’t we be friends?”
is this at all, how
our story ends?


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