Stale breath

I

Stand

And try not to breathe-in

The stale

exhalation

that,

Smells like

Death

From

Tired mouth-breathing giant.

 

Fumes

of travel,

Confined space

and

coffee

coated tongue.

 

Repeated phrases

so

resonant

In my mind

That I am willing

to bang my head

Against the wall

to stop them.

 

Trapped,

on the cusp

of liberation

but

Still,

The occasional,

Intermittent

Aroma

of corpses.

andrea patrie

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