"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?

image: poem

86-87

arts & ego
dish dosh
© & licence

image: set Hear





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