It’s hard to say,
what feelings
come this way,
alone at night
in a simple room
not quite right,
an illusion
of security and love
cracked by allusions
of mystery and gun fire,
a thief or a drug run,
meetings for hire,
an insipid cesspool
of drooling runners
committed to a fool
lost without brains
and no direction to lead
even the lame,
and they will come
hands over their knuckles
bent and fearsome
knowing only what
is told to do
marking caves of sluts
a featureless phantom
hounded and grabbing
for spaces in lanterns
confounded by even
the simplest light
like a priesthood heathen.
It’s hard to say,
these feelings
that come this way.
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