Poets restful waking sleep

The poet lies in fitful states, sweat a luxury as on stone beds he finds the cold denies warming thoughts

Old friend depression draws from veins poison ink, needle greedy as from pale skin in draws its fuel

A page to burn in ruined passion for once great cause, words a plenty to make happy fools feel his burn

Night laid on the alter for whomever dreams to die, eyes waking open as counting bottles he jumps each second gone


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