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Dockyard

It's the end of the month.
The 31st day of what feels like forever.

The salary is in the bank.
But there's no fuel in the tank.

Fatigue makes the eyes smoulder.
Tiredness coats the mind. Makes it fuzzy.

How the bones are holding up is anyone's guess.
What's keeping an aching heart going is a mystery.

The needs are few.
The wants are spilling over.

People wonder if he's thirsting. For her.
Truth is, a good whisky will do just as well.

Maybe there'll be fewer smiles.
There'll be fewer hurts too though.

He can't taste anything.
Nothing serious. He has the flu.

So, being full is just as good as empty right now.
The edge is off his appetite.

For living.

He has been sleeping the sleep of the dead.
Restfully empty.

Slumbers as beautiful as a blank canvas.
Just as meaningful too.

Then, after many days, he dreamed last night.
She said: Maybe you should...

Song for the moment: Feed your head - Paul Kalkbrenner

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