Vicarious life

we drank and drank sought

oblivion but none came

nor euphoria nor

altered plane


a steady numbing yet i

heard it all and saw

it all missed not

a single


he was indeed a poet of

no mean proportion

a short-lived van

gogh of


bent to self-destruction on

his path to knowing

no mouth just lips

a line drawn


lids distort the sound of eye

crepe covers brittle bones

dry laughter dying

hardly heard at


times i wonder why we bother

what is the draw spoken raw

pleasure pain parallel of

love and hate vicarious


do we want too much to feel or

taste anything that we take up

everything so greedily we

chase the siren’s


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