The darkness comes early this time
Of the year. That's a joke. The darkness
Has clung to me, like a burr I might
Have picked up in a forest, for decades.
This twenty-first century has been a blur
Of nocturnal excursions. I stumble.
I fall. I cannot distinguish the things
Which bring pleasure from those
Which bring pain. If I wasn't bound
To a world of light, the alien realm
From where family beckons, trust me,
I'd finish this journey abruptly, a shot
In the temple, a handful of opiates,
Pulling a shroud over me.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 33 times
Written on 2022-11-07 at 12:35
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