Drunk
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He was a raised hand,
Striking down his past.
Delivering sutures
To each of the futures
He touched.
Braying of donkeys
Echoing in his background.
A passing cloud,
Thundering loud
Smatterings of thought,
Like intermittent rain
On corrugated tin.
Ridges of grey matter
Rising, then falling
To the beat
Of felonious assault
,
Hard, soft meeting
Life, entering death
Arm in arm,
With rage.
Copyright © Vernon Witmer | Year Posted 2021
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