Dead Kings of Nowhere

These solemn days of digging holes in the dirt and sleeping through fear of the future. Was supposed to write after work, but after eating, I fell asleep while listening to the sound of rain. It poured for hours. There was no end to it, even long after I had closed my eyes. Dreams never materialised, just the nagging doubt of events out of my control. Beyond all that I know, the universe is just too much for me to comprehend. Smoke a cigarette. Drink a little wine. Block out the menace of disease, and think about sunshine instead. Too many cheating hearts. Too many whores and frauds just itching to be let in. Lifetimes spent stinking in the gutter. Fast food and violence for foreplay. Instead of romance, we bow down to trash. Stuff it in every hole, and praise it as a god. All those moments we spend in silence. Communicating suffering through indifference. It’s just so easy to drift. To go day after day thinking only of something else. Sometimes you have to speak about how you feel. Even if it means shame, you have to open up your guts and get it all out before it’s too late. And it’s always too late. There’s never enough time no matter how hard we try. People die. Days escape. Of all that could’ve been, so much ceases in the time it takes to say goodbye. Those last images, that last embrace. I can’t remember where I’ve been, and I’ve no clue where I’m going. Best just spit out the words and hope for the best. A writer’s got to write, that’s what it boils down to. No more, no less. Melancholy and love. Past and present failures. All of who I am left naked in the eye of a storm. On a beach, I’ll find release. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But one day, I’ll stand beside you and laugh in the face of death as my fingers link with yours. Our love older than the universe. Secrets and despair, hidden in the swirling arms of long dead galaxies and in the veins of dying junkies.

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