deepundergroundpoetry.com
Trademan's Last Trade
He traded drugs for poetry.
Drink for pencil and paper.
An unused tongue
for one with no use.
Love of stone and sand
for something bloody and foreign
and warm; more hungry than marriage
before its sure end.
He imagines himself
on a bed with starched sheets,
in a room with her visiting
his thoughts more than before.
A hand comes to take him somewhere,
a silent hand. He can't bargain,
can't refuse.
Risks are only luxuries for the living
and losing. The hand is a light in light.
When he closes his eyes it's not colour
or black he hopes for,
but the sound of leaves sweeping the entrance
of a cave, while he's fleshing out in the dimness
full of fear, hope. Nothing else.
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