the lost ones
an opaque bed and
old frames kept the room,
the pictures were dusty except
for the cracked
glass, which remained
clear
a circular imprint former to
the indent- as real as the
toe that ached to
be scratched.
he was a novice marksman,
but regardless, a
target at such
a distance promises
perfect aim...
and on
the day after,
(everyone knows
them, the favored
who haven't ever known
anybody)
you never
understood the
significance of a moment or
the lost ones
and so you sit
with your commonwealth
sneer- "what a shame!"
like you
wanted your
faces smashed by
those who thought
the same but
in a different way
pity and absolution
are not one and the same;
neither are grievance and shame in
that instant of ruminance
only your impulsions remain.
so, tell me
again-
what the
fuck did you
think it
was?
👁 3💬 2
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damien.wren.
i'm not anybody. i don't like capitalization. but i do like Camus and Bukowski.
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