An Acrimonious Dialogue

The ambrosial ending 
of the day. I was not sure 
of myself. How would the 
thumb mould the pen 
in internal search 
of cavities? 

You are not going to live 
hundred years. Falling from 
the terrace, with a thud, 
lying in the pool of blood, till you 
find the celibate truth? 

Between the dust and dawn 
lies the dark. The oesophageal 
reflux makes a hole 
in each eye. Can you 
read in the thick fog 
of absent faces?