I don’t drink much anymore.
He drank enough for both of us.
He tried so hard to forget her —
the empty notion of his severed head:
a broken thought of love or death perhaps;
numbed to indifference, he‘ll never know
or feel such sanity of men
nor temperament of deadly sapience;
he walks among us wanderers,
on the borderlands of infamy,
where hate breeds fierce wars,
seeking among dark ruins a foe:
a key to our indifferent earth’s misery;
a way to assuage this fatal comedy
where laughter wryly suffers him;
a gift in glass – a scorpion, a deadly sting:
a skull, a knife, a secret message on the shelf;
all signs of disorder and misrule, the slow burn
that comes when memory and time entwine
and enforce that violence against the heart’s blanks.
– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.