Evidently an army of poets aren’t quite capable
of tantalizing their self anticipated magnum opus
from barren January
and her lack of metaphorical opiates.

Dimmed inner light,
like sunshine in a prism prison,

is unimaginably cogent;

devoid of lines blurred enough to
be worth recording;

we’re only potent when words of warning
illuminate self-ascribed
earth turning literary tidings,

when love is either boundless, or nonexistent,

but never in between,

when misery forms canyons

of myopic history,

and when heartbreak flows

like cheap wine.

Things are fine,
just so,
just going to and fro;

banal as a woman’s iris devoid of fire,

life relegating duty, responsibility, pragmatism
to something higher than it deserves,

and it’s just cold enough 

to stay inside
and waste another godforsaken opportunity to learn
our inner peaks and valleys and curves.

Monsters aren’t the only ones
hibernating in this less-than-everything
first month

of a more-than-anything-could-ever-be

new year.

Willie Watt


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