Snails

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As the room begins to fill

With the lonely, side-long glances
Of unmended hearts, left unfulfilled

By barbiturate romances,
And I only needed to scream

To completely silence the murmurs,
The numb, endless procession

Of dead and dying syllables
Freely flowing against the current

Of some hopelessly enforced ecstasy,
Frightens away the bystanders

Standing hypocritically close by their contradicting standards

Your speech begins to slur

As you mistake poison for joy,
And relax the tongue to a sultry murmur,
And whisper, “Who is Paris without Helen and Troy?”

So that I feel your warmth
As it infiltrates the sanctity of my inner ear,

A deliquescent question that will melt away

In the following day in the form of a tear.

And the smoke in the hallways, it all gathers to dust,

And you know what you’ve done and you know what you must
So you can’t help, but let a smile glance meekly across your lips,

Until you hang your life on a nail, and the bucket just slips.





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