Descent To Civilization

My mind strays in a crowded room.
It is a broken cup lacking glue
and small shards for restoration
or a cue ball struck by a bar time drunk
where the smoke disguises
a nothingness with loose threads
waiting to unravel heat and hunger
with emptiness tied
to the longest strands hanging loose.

If I speak, no one will decipher
my varnished meaning
tucked into incompetent sentences,
since I am accustomed to solitude
and the whisper of the wind
passing through pine boughs.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

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