Lines with Wine

The beauty of writing like this, out into the evening to you my strangers

Is that I can write the most reckless, drunken lines without a care for their truth

Knowing that I’ll wake tomorrow to the horror of them

Lines that have no foundation, no authority, a hair’s breadth from insanity

Saying things like “I don’t give a damn about your life, how or when it ends

Only that before you die you live a moment of it as if owning it all

Knowing that every voice, every beauty, every poem be yours.”

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Voices in Memory

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m still here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m still here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

I can’t see you as before though

Yes, you’ve drifted a little.

Are you still there?

Yes, I’m here. You?

Yes, still here.

Good.

I can’t…I can’t recall where…

Yes, where we were…where we are.

Are you still there?

Yes, I think so. I think I’m still here. You?

I think so, yes.

Good, good.

So many pasts though…which one?

Yes, too many to count now…what use in trying?

Are you still there?…Are you still there I say?

Yes. I’m here. You?

I’m here too.

Good, that’s good.

I have nothing left though…see nothing.

Yes, I too am all gone

I’m still here. You?

Yes, I’m here.