Gift Hoarse

Alarm clock, cocked like a gun.

Numbers that wake you but have no sum.
Semi-colon between one in the mornin’ and
the 49 minutes you’ve been sortin’ out
old photographs,

treating each as if
made of glass because their faces
make you remember to laugh and paper should
never feel so broken.

These days, there’s so
little debate those years were far superior;

despite rose-coloured interiors, the meters of malaise were always there under the wallpaper. But it’s as perfect a stare as my memory can bear, and like it or not, the past belongs where it was left.

Have to mind the facts, some people are never coming back,
because they were not built for the present,pictures in
a box not
withstanding.

Philandering with phantoms,
paying the spiritual ransom
dollar by dollar,
cent by cent to find

value in anything,

a gift horse in the
mouth of
post-mortem
common sense.

Event horizon-
sunrise surmises because it no longer
detects its own light,

we cannot either, and so I choose to
sleep until dusk.

 

 

 

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