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| image by R.A.D. Stainforth |
Midnight.
Like slo-mo windshield wipers,
clock hands sweep clean the face
for another day,
another year.
Your face
still wears yesterday's sins,
last year's tears.
No one for you to kiss
when the clock strikes,
so you leave your lipstick
on the cigarette butts
and kiss another bottle of wine goodnight.
You tell yourself
that this year will be different,
but you awake
to Big Ben clanging in your skull
and an overflowing ashtray.
You are no Phoenix;
nothing will rise from these ashes.
