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I cannot see
see beyond the fluffy lines of euphoric dismay
see past my smokey whiskey
warm in its dismissal of everything.
I lick my fingers, savoring the bitterness.
My work.
My work is done.
My veins, tired from pumping diesel,
from accepting poison,
throbbingly tremble.
Blue with age.
My heart is an old
horse drawn cart
huffing slowly over a pock marked road.
Another line, another vision
my mother in a black dress
the dirt of consecrated land blowing about her.
The open earth wound, flesh of my flesh.
The only eye is the mindís eye.
I would gouge it out
with these lines.
Crimson droplets form on the table
I inhale the now pink douser of flame.
Waste not, want not.
I drink from bottled Styx.
Forget me, sot.
The promise of yesterday
is the wizened crone of before
maiden nevermore.
Shut eye, damn you! shut!
No more of anthems, and pledges
of secrets and death
one more
one more
should help me forget.

Yania Padilla

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The following comments are for "Lines"
by Yania

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