City’s Solitude

And he laid sad in his room dark,

he looked up at the black night sky and wondered why ?

. . .

Why he was not lucky enough to be enchanted with the
silky warm combustion of human contact.
And he loathed in his self-wallowing,
tumbling on his moonlit couch, furnished with
dripping vanilla candles and tender kisses from his rolling tears.
The soft light of his shaded lamp spoke commonly
of his nights alone amongst 'stardust'
and empty bottles of wine and empty packs of cigarettes.
Glasses sat stained with skimp lips of velvet
wine and ashtrays laid speckled with crumbling aesthetic
and abstract renditions of Pollock working with ash.

He laid there sad in his room dark,

his eyes barely crept open but to reflect the clouds
tumbling past like ghosts haunting the air above.
It was a cold night in February and a skimp sheet
laid lazily across his torso and legs.

His bare toes curled in the dry apartment,
without toes to play with.

He wrote poems about her, but he was not sure who she was.
But he knew she was not there.
A record lapsed over and over again,
scratching to be turned over.
But he did not care, for he was never going to care again.

And he laid there sad in his room dark.
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