by July 4, 2014 0 comments

The whiskey burns,
chasing the fruit loops down my throat,
she enters the room,
and sniffs the air,
silence reigns,
until depression invades,
an army she unknowingly leads,
taken captive years ago,
whiskey my only cure,
keeping alive the hope in the soul,
someone will find me,
or maybe,
allow a prisoner exchange.

editors note:

Hash marks on the wall, shot glasses on the table; marking time with no hope of parole. – mh

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