Waste Poem by Julian Takali

The alcoholic in me yet still writhes for the old forgotten drink
Which his wretched lips long for
As does the illness breath deep
The cure rests on a weary street
The boulevard where you finished my cigarettes
The avenue on which stalked the stars
The road where our palms made symphony
The antidote slumbers on a path here or there
But I'll reminisce instead of search
On the damp concrete
At the mystic sky glare
Hoping to find you before the cure on Earth