HANGING UP THE BANNER OF THE GOAT

strictly business belching brine and

beating back the urge to grind my

tears away with the heal of my palm

expose myself and thus prolong the

posthumous intrinsic and stringent

brisk wind that bleats upon the air

like so many bird calls I never learned

or rather learned to never dream again

and its enough to take this hand

that I posses on the end of a would be stump

and reach it out JUST ONCE would be enough

to call me brave after such a fall from grace

or rather into filth I besmirched my own name

and tainted legacies of me yet to be

and its enough to lay the blame where it belongs

and feel no longer shameful no longer pained

by all the agonies you brought upon me

with your absence growing like an abscess and

blasting me with ego blows cancerous

I am the last me that will ever be and

our brief tryst with being two of me will end

as it always does with things like this

a broken heart and a sprained wrist

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