The After Burn

Benjamin Jenkins, life, poem, poems, poetry, writing

I awake;

Into the daze of reoccurring reality,

Into the marijuana haze,

Into heavy, hanging thoughts,

Into an empty, nicotine saturated tummy.

I used to have a home.

It’s strange to be alone.

It’s simple as an empty pillow.

Confusion is poison.

Pictures are the past, read by current mood swing.

Pictures are truth, within a mess of blurring memories.

Capture that moment,

Wrestle it into something tangible.

The Camera produces a fickle item.

A great Milestone,

A great Vertigo.

Your smile,

Hair burning,

Below blue skies in Montreal,

Dark sunglasses;

Reflecting my affection.

Suffering through the unstoppable march of time

Affects the results.


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