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“The Scavenger's Ledger by Stewart Stafford The scratch of a nib on paper Tells me I am alive, I think. At this Heaven/Hell midpoint— A torn throat for a poison drink. The horizon lit up again tonight, Rebels fight for futile freedom, Happiness, a cold, distant stranger, No gifted transfusion to bleed him. Willingly failing the audition of life, Food appears to have lost all taste, A numb tongue or cheap ingredients, I cannot let one crumb go to waste. They’ve finally cured me of love, Stripped every vestige of me away, Carrying my grave upon my back, Their snail slithers from day to day. © 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.” — Stewart Stafford
The Scavenger's Ledger by Stewart Stafford
The scratch of a nib on paper
Tells me I am alive, I think.
At this Heaven/Hell midpoint—
A torn throat for a poison drink.
The horizon lit up again tonight,
Rebels fight for futile freedom,
Happiness, a cold, distant stranger,
No gifted transfusion to bleed him.
Willingly failing the audition of life,
Food appears to have lost all taste,
A numb tongue or cheap ingredients,
I cannot let one crumb go to waste.
They’ve finally cured me of love,
Stripped every vestige of me away,
Carrying my grave upon my back,
Their snail slithers from day to day.
© 2026, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.