BY
MINIMALISM
GARRETT HOFFMAN
Ever since the
clocks fell back, as if
in surrender, a lot
more than just the sunset
has been manipulated.
The infrequent spells
of sleep are now being
accompanied by headaches,
a wicked cocktail I wasn’t
prepared for.
And the actual alcohol
that usually fuels my step has
now dried up, in sync
with my wallet,
leaving me reminiscent of
a bobble-head during
an earthquake.
Everything is shrinking:
the importance of love,
the value of time,
the strength in my voice,
my life into boxes,
all reduced to measly
white shadows.
I’ve paid for almost
everything I own and
yet I feel as if all
that I own is someday soon
going to make me pay,
like a dependable premonition.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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