He had a re-occuring
dream as a young man

He was in a fist
fight with a man
whose face he could
see but never recognize

And he would punch
as hard as he could
but his punches would
always land soft
By the time they reached
their target they were
powerless and weak
They would land
but they were worthless.

But he doesn’t dream much
these days because he doesn’t

He instead stays up all night
remembering a man
he knew too well; his face
obscured by cloth
His mouth filled by water
scared he might drown.

He remembers every lie he told
and every lie he heard in return.

Not really much of a poem. Probably better as a detail in a fiction scene.


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