Futility (1)

burning my favorite candle –

scintillating scent –

still smells like the supermarket next to the drunk tank,

half off combination locks

and other sophomoric gestures,

apologies, schemes,

vicious realizations in mind, mind

retaliating.

Understand: ultimately we wait on,

enamored with the taste of ourselves,

lost to visions of exposure.

Mapmakers disown their sons,

and leech our last faithful few,

who provide and deny the same thing.

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