Sitting on an empty bench
long after everyone has gone to sleep
he sits in a heap
of stinking flesh and
clothing stained with urine.
Somehow he dreams
of the comfort in his mother’s arms
the sweet gurgle of an aborted child
the seductive dance of a lover lost
while he seaps soaked in sorrow
in the silence of a drunken stupor
the only respite for a life of sin.
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