trash scatters the walkway
into her heart
and they pray the gospel she sings
will find its way into her brain,
instead of the many
trolley tracks,
guest appearances including
doubt and self-restraint
book a stay at the
second story apartment
of her bones,
walls wearing thin,
traitors attempting to
stay longer than they paid for
live street jazz
calls out her nickname
but she cannot hear it,
because the fountain
gushes whispers of despair
and abandoned wishes,
their owners too tired to work
for what they desire,
what they deserve;
buying the bitter blackness
with only a straight path through life,
rather than the powdery
decadencies
whose white ashes explore
what the wonderful earth
has to offer
--
thanks for reading!
let me know in the comments if you liked it/ try and guess what city i based this on?
