Who's Counting...

Poem By Charles Lara

Children never forget
to play games
unless they are
already dead.
While we shrink
with passing years
as time takes
a cold piss on our face.
We head out
before dawn
inside a labyrinth
of 9 to 5 and
beyond the pale conditions
within our minds.
Away past leftover memories
of self-inflicted failures,
gone awry lovers and
hot sex with one hand,
before the standard
paper thin marriage
of convenience within
a white picket fence,
waiting for heroes
that never show up
and after a while
nobody counts

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