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June 2, 2022

Drunk With Sorrow

dirty hands in pockets I walk through the graveyard on the way home
a cloudy rainy day but the graves and their residents don’t mind

they’re the ones who don’t have any problems

long grass not mowed in a while

weeds choking footstones; names unreadable 

dead grass not alive for a while

something in common with those who inhabit these little pieces of the earth

among the tombstones I walk past, someone who lived to be 92

a long life, a full one

next to it marks a grave of somebody who died when they were 22

luck of the draw, luck of the draw…

there’s nothing worse than growing old except not growing old

some tombstones drunk with sorrow falling down 

or already laying on the ground passed out

they’ve fallen and can’t get up

forgotten souls

who are you laying there?

almost all of us are forgotten anyway, so what’s the diff?

new day with the hangover of yesterday hanging over it 

life; a mostly garish patchwork quilt of randomness 

that falls off the bed and lays on the unswept floor

death; a shroud of final finality or so we think so 

that brings us to the end of the line

it’s a sad world