painted by an orphan brush….
heroin ghost nightmares
lost in the void
between time and flesh…
cold steel revolver
beneath the pillow-
the line between fear
and ‘i dont give a damn’!
and the eyes of the children
stare like poison ink
on the pages of what’s left…
cold iron bars
blurr the vagabond night
with feelings that taste
like death….
karma rips the night asunder….
and you’re left praying…
for clear skies,
unchained dreams…
a lover’s breasts for a pillow…
eyes that plant seeds….
and a warm body to feel!

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