This time I can feel the weight of a thousand stones upon my chest.
Stains on a century.
Subsequently growing tired of all the side talk.
Misanthropes masquerading a feigned elegance.
Peeling back the mirror.
An elastic apparatus to keep the vagabonds off the bus bench.
It’s my last stop before I’m lost in the telescopic froth of death’s eternal echo.
A reverberation resounding in my metallic skull.
Never gold.
Misappropriated miscreants begging for a bullet.
Waiting with baited breath for a crack in the subterfuge.
Oh to see the effulgent morning sun.
One last time before I’m off to an alternate reality.
Where emotion is as useful as my past.
No more “please” and never a “thank you”…

-Text and Collage by Thomas Wareham