"Smoke Filled Rooms"


Fall-out chains across the agenda,
issues mist the verbal blur,
weapons wait tense on lips,
lungs filled with poisoned air.

Stab!
Oh, so good the first time,
such nerves, such achievement,
but now, again, again,
for what?


setting
from detritous

image: poem

86-87

site
copyright





this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978-2024 dylan harris