Docile creates hostile,

what was once worthwhile

falls to the exile.

Touch loses textile,

meanwhile the end is approaching.

Lost to the lost,

deaf to the next thing

that comes at us,

like a bus to take us

away from ourselves.


Let the next accident

be negligent,

never sent

with consent,

just constant loss of reception.


Fuck, I hate this.

It’s just one more nail

in the coffin.

Fuck that box!

I don’t want to go yet.

I’m not done yet,

not by a long shot…

… hold for the gunshots…

… I am not lost…


HG – 2016

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