The clock had not yet hollered,
Nor could he hear the chirp of any bird,
As his sleepless night doddered,
He sought an anchor, a thought, a word.
On the nearby table, a dim glow,
The laptop had nothing new to show;
Swipe, scroll, search, skim, spew,
Much broken, what could a phone glue?
He tried to think of an apt song,
But, his every pick seemed so wrong;
Voices, tune, and lyrics so alien,
Yet, what was the selection criterion?
From his bed, he eyed his stash,
The stuff seemed dead: a pile of ash;
The old cigar, the sleek cigarette,
Neither promised thrall, thrill, or threat!
The world seemed a sick smog,
He'd no urge to find a better analogue;
Could he have been more alone?
He hadn't even an addiction his own!
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