straight in the pit
of nights spiting fire.
In view to all the blind
the warmth may bring.
A fiery bursting, spinning,
swirling in blackness fury.
It burns with an unholy beast
to frequent the fragile spirits
in their glass houses.
I drink to blind the visions
of bruised and battered day's.
That tend to visit my shortened spirit.
I tip the shot glass over.
My day is done. (6-28-10)
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