by Keith Higginbotham

Will you ever
aspire to unbridled
sleepwalking, beat
the emptiness
of slow
poison, across
town no movement there.

A year stretches to lackluster
anymore, monotonous to
rescue. Your mind
is a remedy.

What you do is trapped
in the escape. The stream is ready
to leave.

A jealous colleague shuffles
papers, how do you do.

Torture is a victim.

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