B.D Fischer

Facet
 
The residue still on my tongue and in my brain, I
reach for the pipe, feeling its smoothness ...
 
                                                                        We ply
our trade amidst the smoke of a thousand fires.  We fly,
gaining strength, losing ground, and I orbit the moon.  I
tell them to shut the fuck up.  They die
 
but I’ll be safe before they fall, they scream, they lie
on the floor of some modern-day sty
while I weep, I’m hopeless, I’ll vie
for respect before you sigh,
drop to your knees, and I
 
turn heel, shut the door and reach for my
lighter.  Silver.  Engraved.  Initials.  Abide.
 
 

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal