Yellow Sun

The sun is out,

Half its head buried and hidden,

in the thighs of mountain peaks cascading,

along the horizon.

I am drunk.

I pull out a cigarette pack,

and strike a light with a cig.

I’m thinking,

of all the wrong  instances I might die,

I wonder,

about my constant

and dangerous flirting with death.

I wonder,

about actions of mine,

that are in rebel with the commune.

am I being true to my self,

or am I being a danger to my self?

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