Shake my hand. I am ashamed.
Stains and a distinct reek of death.
My eyes wonder above my head.
Skin shaved body, lay upon me.
Chalk lines on a sidewalk,
a kid playing with a bee.
Beer is thrown, stacks, with a bike in the back
and the distinct bitter taste of death.
Knitting young women, two men talking about Kerouac.
Dressed up in fine outfits, nothing more than for themselves.
Dream of youth and the friend you lost in the war.
Me loosing the ability to send streams of lakes and rivers
to the cracks of the floor.
Life is acting like a whore and death is a father
that only speaks of false hopes and promises.
Mocking little man, I face you and find you sad.
I only contemplate of the mix of your soon to be grave,
filled with dirt and piss.
Pretty lady curl your body up to me.
Death floats in the air
and my organs are sinking ships.
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