given the current placement of the empty cigarette box,

by kevinbarrettkane

                       

i can tell that you have been locked

inside this room

for days—most likely—in

a state of self-induced delirium

            [delirium: (n) ambiguously-shaped monotony]

in silent autumnal wind-

swept mindset, I find you—

            you, being that which I address—

            you, in all your righteousness—

            in all your posthumously placed

            rhymes

            [you: (n) a singularity, yet infinite]—

cowering fearlessly on top of

my cabinets, devouring whole

sentences and replacing cheerio

pieces with Alpha-bits—you

bastard.  you dare entertain such

paratactical fetishes in my living

room— c’est des conneries, mon ami.