In Sink Holes

Crushed by the shame
Of placebos and pity,

A lot older than he should be,

With an ever growing list
Of people he dare not bump into,

Hatreds jotted down,

A receipt for every angry nightmare,
Passionate outburst and tear,

He’s the kind that laughs
At the ends of strange bars,

The knuckles in his fists

The thump of lost dreams
Collected in sink holes.

He’s wrecking his down time
With the whispering shadows,

The bruises he paints over
And the furniture he breaks
And then fixes,

He’s a beast in his spare room
Imagining war cries,

The silent scream
Of almighty,

The text prisoner,
The hostage,

He’s caged in a web
Worded darkly.

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