Close to official midnight, shoulder
Too painful to lift an arm, ankle tweaked,
Internal organs lost in parley over who
Should surrender how much and which,
Body surrendered but sneakily kept on
Breathing, as if another morning woken
To and greeted were less than nothing,
Were simultaneously superior to the walk
Of the drunkard exaggerating everything,
And the emptiness of the certain
Who will brook no exceptions, by god,
The emptiness who will not, however, end
As you would wish your failure to end.
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