A Fearless Junky, Sorta


Plastic barrel flicked,
Stoic rubber tip
Descended like a frown.

“We’ve discovered progress!”
He claimed while his protracted beard
Collected ashes off the table,
He characterized walls
With a slotted stare-
His conversation perfumed
From chain smoking.

“And you’re not afraid of death,”
I asked. “Nah,”
He replied
And from a tiny void
Leaked a trail of blood
That navigated through bulging veins
Mottled with polka-dot scabs,
“I haven’t even lived enough….”
“What do you mean?”
Beneath the open window
A police siren resounded
Through brick laden buildings
Bordering the alley.
He initiated laughter
Pitched to match the siren.

We fell asleep shortly after,
But I was awakened by his screams
A symptom of his night terrors.
A symptom of ignored fear…

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