Touch

Why is it like past paths unchanged?,
In present tense,
I own my vices, every night before rest,
Remembered are what cannot be swallowed…
It’s every night.

The morning, a new man to decay throughout short hours of long day,
Be rationalized into appropriate, and thought pure,
Convince the likes of lots and spare few,
A smile and pep,
Jolly wide jaws and jokes,
Remembered are those that cannot be swallowed, so I choke –
On apparitions of upheaval,
Leave sanctity at bedroom’s door,
Let my clothes, in a room alone, descend to the floor,
Let the blackness of my prior self consume this room, from which its housed,
His stench in sheets,
I do not seek!-
The same night’s ending!,
No same sleep,
His brain’s weak,
To temptations of lustful peaks…
Into webs of unclothed whores,
I can plead…no more,
For salvation from what before,
I can no longer cry…in ink,
For separation from my recent past,
He be taken to his very last,
Touch.

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