Whisky nights at 2.27

Confined within shadow and sleep, I slip,

deeper and deeper into my malcontent life.

I offer some nourishment to the hunch on my back,

further down the cellars I go, letting it grow.

It occurred to me to fight back, not encourage my malaise,

but then who would I be, without the unkempt scars on my face?

They are me, more than me and something else,

bits of my colonized soul, appetizers in a bowl.

Maybe happiness is the easier offspring to beget,

our pain being our tinted window pane, into a dreamscape.

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