almanac of bitter truth

hoarse screams
from the dry well
of solemn truth
on the heavy wind
of tumultuous
mossy stones
with erstwhile memories

she carries
a pack of gum
in her front pocket
a knife
in her purse
walking unsteadily
on high heels
after one too many
one too manys

the night
hides the lines
that run
like an atlas
of agonized realties
up and down her arms
cigarette burns
like constellations
on the pale white skin
of winter scars
of autumn pain
of hope springs deferral
of summer flame

she is
an open book
that requires
a rosetta stone
to decipher
an almanac
of bitter truth
a thesaurus
left blank
with no words
to describe
utter anguish


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