compassion,
smacks a bloodied hand,
across your embrace-less crowd
kind of face,
dripping lemonade and vodka,
down your weak seven haired- mustached
upper crust lip,
while you quiver
about the why,
and who would,
and what's the point,
forgetting my shadow self,
still sitting across from you,
just showed you a piece of my out-heart,
served on a white plate cracked
in bone and china,
tar-tar for the happy hour,
when it beats, alive,
looking for yours,
you shriek ,
with the shriveled pellet balls,
of a passed-over mouse,
cowering into the
corner of the booth,
how did they find you?
how did they find you?
No comments:
Post a Comment