and when the world is nothing more

and when the world is nothing more
than a house of slumbering, stale dread
where heart and lung, once clean, now fill
with shallow hope and gasping breath
fed by a steady diet of cigarettes
exercise is running
so that hands and drugs and money might connect,
pills and powders to cleanse the blood
in imitation, a rather expensive attempt,
to recreate the way it used to run.

despite the urging of well meaning tongue
who paint the raven like the dove,
I am not so easily led into the trap
thus I wallow, wishing, without expectation
until dawn is spread across my mind
it leads my eyes to glare upon hope’s face
whose lips spoke all with single stroke
solid made transparent with simple sweep
the dark is made less, if only slightly so
as I lift the sunglasses from my face.

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