bitterly hungover on sobriety

we don’t sleep
we reembrace the nothing
from which we were
unceremoniously spat
i steal scant hours
from the well of
emptiness in which
my bare consciousness
spent nigh eternity
coalesced around
fearful of the eventual
return that dogs
my every labored breath

the sky is the iris
of a bored celestial baby
unimpressed by the
fleeting colors that
drip flaccidly down
the blanket of night
preparing itself to
scream for attention
unaware there is
no maternal comfort
hovering at the edge
of the vast pool
of absurd dadaism
in the ill fitting
costume of meaning

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