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I can’t blame
the whiskey,
not today,
anyway,
since I haven’t
had a drop
in four weeks
(less a day)
so it must be
the madness
come to claim
my tattered
trappings
of sanity

it slips past
the pills
like a cloud
drifting by
to obscure
the moon
on a chill
winter night
a wisp
of smoke
on the wind
that darkens
those stars
that guide me

what’s real?
what’s fiction?
it’s too hard
to see when
dreams
come to life
and life
is grief
and it seems
that sleep
reveals truth
and seeing
is simply
a lie

 

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