On passing over. (#14)

Prompt: a poem with questions

Why is this night different from all other nights,
And am I really wicked?
As I run from benzo dogs, nipping at my heels,
Why do their barks echo in my mind?
Who is the winged figure in crates at the Louvre,
why are we so complacent and recline?
I am destroying my own personal Australia,
One pill at a time.
Where have your reefs gone?
Where are the swirls of color and pangs of regret?
I say, the monotony is soothing,
They repeat, you were a wandering Aramaean.
And perhaps now you are home.
The wicked child, the modernist primer says,
Ought to be reprimanded with a trenchant retort
A slap to the face.
Day, each day, I beg for these things, away from the holiday,
I repent.

-C.

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