His Mire

You stained the time line

of my heart

with your grief ridden tears

and desperate drunken pleas.

I was just a place for you to

sit and weep inconsolably

and beat with

all the harsh words you had

stored in your taste buds.

You were a rabid

hungry little thing—blinded

by madness.


I give you back to the road

and to the dust

and to the next places

you will go and the mire

of your spent inheritance

where you may weep


with desperate drunken

pleas—death in your mouth.


Death has no hold on me.


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