A skeletal frame, reduced to skin and bone,
a rasp for a voice, words merging into one another,
like Gollum, in constant need of his precious.
Shivering fingers, struggling to hold on to the railing,
subway stairs, steeper than mountains uncharted,
take them one at a time. The traffic above,
screaming in his ears like a thousand tortured souls,
crying desperately for mercy, mercy that he never will have.
A hundred year old jacket loosely hangs on his narrow shoulders,
under that, a tattered shirt, stained with oil, dirt and contempt.
Finally made it to the top. The traffic loud enough to physically throw
him off balance, or whatever illusion of balance he had.
Reduced to a crawl, horns, engines, exhausts. Too many noises.
Hand reaching up to pull open the door of his rundown shack.
A tsunami of smells invade the senses, as the door swings open,
the moon peeks from behind the stars, he coughs blood.
wheezing he reaches for the one anchor he has left to hold him,
white as snow, lines on the table, parallel, sorted.
With those lines inside, he’s also sorted,
the sun shines once again, life doesn’t seem like the desolate
wasteland that it has become. Breathe snow, breathe snow.


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