THERE was nothing alluring

about crackling rays

that could shift his own apathy

toward the old filled with wishful,

wistful thinking,

inebriated with regret,

cramming their desires

on the day of terminus.

He hated the room for its tiring stench

of recycled vows and cheap theatrics.

He finished his drink but lit again a cigarette,

still in the vice grip of flame

refusing to be extinguished,

yet in transit of extinction,

for old habits don’t die

easily as years do.

 

Josef Brian M. Ramil

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