FOG IN THE GARDEN
If I have this much to give
why waste my words
on hasty promises
on gardens of flowers
with no chance to live
as I stumble through the rows
drunk on the wine
and the words of foes
mind spinning
numb lips singing
the music of the world
an afterthought
deep in the middle
of my last pint
her gauze like eyes
and triple stare
alone and with but unaware
running home
to waste the devil
taste the liquid clever
tongue that licks
breathing in
through an acrid lung
catches me
in mid firefly
and sticks to the end
of my lie
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