Sole Survivor

Blind from the light
after monochrome

tomes into
which I’ve
poured idle
mindsets take flight.

Wastelands down iron
personify irony taking
last stands with
vicious swipes

and vice.

Every cannibal
knows courtesy dies
on the journey to
adjourn his
tongue from hunger.

Hung at the hip, a holster of skin, handguns of my hiccups with the hundreds they’ve skimmed from this world or eased into the next.

But had that gone to my head in a subway of dread
the sweat of my brow would erupt in
a mushroom cloud.

Rest assured, you
would already
be dead.

I’m blind from the
light after being a
moth of the night
and my
against wind
swept morrows and
radioactive sorrow’s no
mere slight

but one
hell of a fight I’ve brought
to the door of
remotely opposing.


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