Milking the Imagination Dry

He knocked over the cup spilling all the milk onto the floor,
the topless cup swirled in the flux creating imaginary snow angels.
He accidentally fell into the milkiness of thoughts in white;
Like a ball of dust in a storm rolling to the tunes of a sultry breeze.
The al naseem twist his views as it whistles and howls past,
his dangerous heart seeks dark pretty strangers that will never have a name.
He blew rings of smoke into his lungs before he stubbed to give up yet again.
Filling his veins like the delicate stream of warm milk on the floor.
Fear in his bones of the unknown, he feared the routine,
as the empty carton of milk sat on the edge of the table.
Wishing it would all end his lungs withered.
He gathered the streams of white into a frothy puddle:
the more he gathered, the stickier it got.
Don’t cry over split milk, but it was the crying baby who gets it.
The fool just sits there with his wounds being salted by the passing sea breeze.

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