perched on the precipice of the week

Thursday night once again I come drink from your dirty trough. I am like a moth dancing with the flame, my paper thin wings licked by fire’s cleansing fangs. The filmstrip of my life rattles on, a string of vague faces in scenes etched on celluloid. I stumble along behind, stretching out an arm or leg here and there, just trying to stay in the field of view. And in the shadows the fiddle plays high and lonesome, keeping perfect time to the insanity of it all.

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  1. >This is some beautiful writing. Thanks for sharing.

  2. >I haven't drank from the dirty trough in a long, long time; however, wouldn't you know it, I was planning to tonight. And this is when I read your post… It's like your in my head.By the way, if I haven't mentioned it lately, I love the way you write.



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