another round

i can’t help but wonder
how it’ll end
not the current apocalypse
but the little life
wanting then receiving
giving then taking
manic then disillusioned
waiting on
calls that never come

too soft to dream
swimming in terror
at 3 am
somehow the clock is
always cursed
as i meditate on
hilarious absurdities
roaming ugly alleys
of virtual intent
with two bottles of red wine
faded and glorious
in a tired and abundant

scratching that itch
in a dance of
empty delight
how many nights
can this stray cat
from a fountain of
dangerous youth
hopelessly wandering
in distracted circles
that never seem



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