July is made of misty morning conquered by heart

Standing placidly in boring wait

Cigarettes clamped between fingers, fogged vision by smoke exhalation

Your trepidations blown out, blown along.


July is of musky, sweaty afternoons

Restless and keen to leave the tedious work in howling

Mad dungeon yearning for bed as somnolence creeps

Like a bug and bites spreading vast slumber virus.


July is of long evening trips back home, trudging along

Lengthy buses in stiff traffic jams

Coming home beaten like a barroom thug, collapsing, the world ceasing to turn.

Resting and dying lines are blurred



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