Poem #8

The telephone
is alive and well
but that doesn't mean that
you are.
In neon bar rooms
where smoke flutters about
light fixtures
like moths,
you are wasting my life.
Words can be apparitions
you see them
L I N G E R I N G
but they are not there.
In this life where neither of us survive
together
or
alone
what does it matter
which one we
choose?
Literature lives on
you live on through words
you will soon die
literally
and
figuratively.

by Carl A.I.

Other poems of A.I. (35)

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