Nicotine Suite (No.14)

stood too close to the sun
too long an eternity a year
maybe two, now can't tell
what, if it's just a candle
up there behind a cloud,
the light is flakey, these
hands in the fire still cold,
guess too, a bit blinded
selectively, gray tincture
of light always now, head
stuffed with meat, filler, but
a felt echo in the column, a wet
tearing emptiness to drop a pebble
into hours and weeks and
waiting waits for
abyss' answer

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