The Last CallA Poem by Abigale LeCavalierThe Last Call Moving through crowds simulating sadness, tortured; the anxiety overcomes everything, even whiskey over rocks, or another empty bottle of Xanax.
The sound of familiar voices echo like dogs barking at the park, nothing but bad Milkbone breath, growls of suspicion, or unimportance.
Too bad it has to be like this, in any other picture frame; pornographic.
And life seems to slip away, a bit too slowly sometimes.
Just waiting for the bell to chime; the last call?
Or just another beginning. © 2010 Abigale LeCavalier |
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