written by: Eoghan Lyng
Another number is ripped from the paper I ripped,
Placing the name and the number for a drink
That never occurred.
Another suitcase is packed, racked with guilt,
As friendships are ended, recommended hostels,
Fostered and rostered on recommendations taken
Too little in consideration for depth.
Wept ridden papers have vapored,
In silk soiled mood swings that
Never cease to impress,
Less they be anything other than formality.
Standing in line, finely situated side by side,
Are we ready to die? Perhaps.
If death were another way to sleep,
Would it not be better to close those eyes,
Fired from a nights light flit from cigarette fire,
Wired, yet tired, seamless and beadless,
Why, but why can’t I cry in this spot?
Not tonight, not today,
Nor will I be in peace,
Appeased by releasing and teaching,
These inners as sinners,
From the wars of sore memories,
Tattered, battered, forgotten,
Lovers find others, memories die,
And I catch another flight, fit and ready,
But this voyage still feels heavy,
Heavy in past, heavy in port,
Heady ranged and ready,
For another journey before death.
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