I am caught writing poems
that are by turn bitter
and blackened by apathy.
The dark glint of gold on his nightstand
where I put my earrings,
heirlooms that have seen
too much sin for one day.
The profane silence of sleeping fathers.
The damp faces
of little sons
and the sighs of bygone martyrs
who have sacrificed
enough for
one day.

You see? These lines
are nothing but a witch hunt

and we haven’t caught the bitch


2 thoughts on “Burn-out

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