Ebbing into silhouettes
And stifled by the night.
These eyes are my distraction,
These bones become my vice.

Huddled satisfaction
In the corner of my life.
Inanimate reflections
To dissect the words I write.

And soft, poetic sadness
In a concentrated dose;
A perforated spirit
Gone to find a holy host.

These walls are my conviction,
Fueled by scents of coke and rum.
And colors saved from older days
Invade my chauvinistic slum.

The open liquor bottles contents,
Vapor ransacking the air.
There was this uniform conclusion
That I was never there.

I just kept etching towards confusion,
Bereft of human sanity.
Free of spectator intrusion;
A string of words and misery.
 
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