Glass half empty

[R.C. KITCHENS]

Coal-black space where time tappers off to

silence. Some would say that "It is peace."

There are no more roads to travel and very

few sunsets left to see differently.

Stars sporadically fill spaces of void and those

clusters which are named become a recurrence

less thrilling.

Sleep alludes this weary body as it suffocates

in the complacency of routine.

I find myself drinking to past car crashes, slowly

drifting into them so to remember what it was like

to be living.

There is the remembrance of stealing for the first

time. The first sexual encounter, and lust.

Years pass and lust for anything begins to adjust

with age.

Life slowly equates to putting on socks in the morning.

It is just something normal and far from exciting.