A duct taped shoebox of photographs
and a flask full of Jim Beam,
past is past
there’s no looking back
or so it so often seems.
I made peace with the morning
but continue to worship the night.
The high alter of your idolatry
Crumbled more and more
provoked by the light.
I don’t miss you anymore.
I gave you up drinking bourbon
I gave up the ghost on razor blades
You’re not as special as you’ve come to think.
It’s a summer rain,
the fade of your face.
Everything follows you full circle round
and devil dealing's the only sound.
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