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Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

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At one time I talked with myself, almost daily,
but now, we don't say much these days.
I think I hate myself now. Absolutely!
I walk a street adorned with peppermints
skipping yes skipping along, hitting the bong,
long deep breaths and the pond is but a sheet
wavering glass spied through the smoky haze.
The ducks and geese are static, just decoy fakes,
never moving, never moving. I want them to fly!
I thought I killed myself off some years back, but
once again, like a mosquito in summer, I return,
yes, return but yearning for that taste of a bullet.
I cry for the children dressed in their best finery
crosswalk bound, guided by the blind and aged,
off to learn of life, giggling and laughing, laughing
as the two percent milk curdles in the winter's sun.
At one time swallows soared through bare willows.
I argue with myself as I sit on a bench, I'm askew.

(Cyrenaicism (n) \ˌsir-ə-ˈnā-ə-ˌsi-zəm, - an adherent of the doctrine that pleasure is the chief end of life.)

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Ken Allan Dronsfield is a poet. He loves writing, thunderstorms, and spending time with his cats Willa, Turbo and Yumpy. He lives for the day, and believes in Mermaids.


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