a matchbook

i am

beset by

on empty
yet driven
by demons
of incessant

in the hours
of love
and actual
i retrace
my every move
shifting from
side to side
a surrogate pillow
clutched close
as the universe
chuckles at
the foolish

i am

yet beset by

i wonder if
these damnedable
demons of mine
ever get bored.

i know for certain
i do.

perhaps i set
my goals too high
my expectations
not quite low enough.

a roiling ball
of unmitigated chaos
spinning deeply in
a plethora of
insidious fiascos.

a half spilled
bottle of red wine
on the ivory sheets
a tattered notebook
filled with
bad poetry and
cartoon hearts filling
the margins.

perhaps the words
don’t go ignored
it could be the answers
are whispered too low
for me to comprehend.

three sparrows
a fool
and an army of
unruly demons.

a matchbook and
insomnial tinder.

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