Sentinel Poetry (Online) #56 ISSN 1479-425X


Editor-in-Chief: Amatoritsero Ede

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Baseball cards,
a rubber band,
an 1894 Indian head penny,
the aroma of cheap tobacco
filled the bottom of an old cigar box;
my box of dreams where no one else could go.

When I was grown the box became a distant memory,
I had forgotten the magic of dreams, cynical adulthood.

In Hollywood I was sure that I was home,
only to find a pink slip and a plane ticket.

My depression?
Black as coal or blacker,
I lived inside this tube of insanity
where nothing made sense —
I felt like I was dying.

Snorting coke and drinking Buds
to take away the pain, growing thin,
I lost control of my life once again.
Gazing through teary eyes I saw it...
my box of dreams.

When I opened it, I found a time capsule:
baseball cards
a rubber band
and that 1894 Indian head penny;
the box still wafting old tobacco
from 30 years ago filled my nostrils.

My life was not full of hope anymore,
just the agony of knowing;
how I wished that I could start over...
one more feeble attempt at life.

Eventually, I fell asleep
clutching my box of hope.
I had a dream that it was all a terrible mistake —
my war wounds,
my drug addiction all passed away
in my unconscious mind.

When I awoke
I felt a moment of peace... of hope.
Through blood shot eyes I looked around the room,
stacks of empty beer bottles,
an ashtray full of death ,
the residue of cocaine
and a dirty rolled up dollar bill,
still on my mothers’ antique mirror;

And I knew that I was back —
back in the pit of hell.



Ron Cervero 

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