Right Justified

The words I read on a page speak to me the way a bottle of hard liquor speaks to him on lonely Friday

nights.

 

Screaming, taunting, laughing.

 

They sing me to sleep with clever, indie rhymes.

Each morning I wake with coffee already in hand;

The yellow ring on my kitchen table darkens with every sip.

People dance in the streets as I shuffle past.

How could anyone be so stupid?

They know it will all end sooner than they think.

But their music plays on, completely inaudible to me.

 

It’s a waiting game now.

 

Life is just one big, cliché waiting game.

He puts the bottle to his lips;

the last drop hits his tongue.

Who knew poison could taste so sweet,

the aroma of death so delicious.

 

A funeral for a forgotten man

is certainly a short one.

Intermittent crowds full of regret

shed tears and lay flowers on the grave

of a stranger.

 

Their music plays on.

 

.

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