THE REAL OLD

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I am nauseating from the coal biscuit bites of a hundred ashen hearts
I can't suck in the smell of death now, as I once sucked your damp petals
I shoo away some white rats into the black gutter everyday
I am failing today, failing miserably in my success of finding
the teenage girl's dawn in an old man's bench
I usually flicker out before bed time in my neighborhood, and 
I escape as the last silhouette of concern from a gentleman's chimney
I now have the four adjacent corner guys growing on me, more than ever
I can always fight the sympathetic me, noon washed and dried
I can always fight my dead son ironing his dad clean, but
I feel like skrinking today as an uncertain fear
of the frosted demon hovering over me
I feel left behind as an used petrichor in the morning kitchen
I try not being the face when guests of my own ceremony leave
I can no longer take wet beats, warm hits, chilled sheets, as
I have already had my statues flooded, dried and left to dry for more
I am the touch of a handshake, ten years ago
I still burn as eyes even when everyone is satiated
I am the 'false assurance' under a thousand dim lights and the following 'rolling over'
I am as restless as the restless raven in its night gown, and now
I am failing, failing in my failures, trying to grab the little sparrow, asking it, 
how it so easily blurts out its sadness as happy chirps
I can't take it any longer, I will soon vomit and declare the last bit of my strength as garbage
I do realise, I am getting old, my sleep and all that sleeps with it, is no longer not plain
I might reek of an 'ant love' less if I'm dead, but I won't stop
I will soon feel dizzy and irritated at the effortless affair between a button and its hook
I will then want you to remember, my dead sons,
remember to hold and preserve me in my december
I have lived so much; I don't wan't to die, a death.

Metaphorsurrealismsymbolism

◄ MY GHOST

HONEST FACE ►

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