08.26.04
Wobble
The touch of my own hand,
does not feel mine.
The sounds (in the distance),
amplified.
The clumsy gait,
of my walking stick.
its vodka,
that’s doing the trick.
Words that fall out in a drunken stupor
The touch of my own hand,
does not feel mine.
The sounds (in the distance),
amplified.
The clumsy gait,
of my walking stick.
its vodka,
that’s doing the trick.
