A. Theist


Autumn’s last leaf pirouettes on a
cold wind,
cold enough to freeze your tits off,
then falls.

Basking in this great silence like I’m
the only one left,
I light a cigarette.

The dog is staring at me in that
curious way,
wondering what’s next,

“Go on, boy. Go piss.”, I say.

It’s moments like these,

when the world is all alone,

under a blanket of snow that

I wish you were all dead.

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