Once shaken,
every drop of serum,
one that could have been the antidote,
viscous form of residue, the cure meant just for us.
The needles, and their insistent sheens
are too similar to
our vices,
and our soulless birdsongs
for whom should rule the roost at sunrise.
Yes, this flatland living, is a tired concept,
never double dip your nostalgia,
or write beyond the pen’s
meager dose.