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.