soft blood sheets stain my eyes as the lead soaks through my mind.
black pools of an unknown substance stare back at cheap paintings in
the dim light. here is a prison paid for. here is a one window cell division of proper things and suicidal kings.
a distant memory of state lines and loneliness. through the
plastic sound of a cold winter breeze.
the birds sing a song of holly trees and cigarettes.
their cages blend by along roads entwined. I cannot cross their
path. manufactured happiness from slaves with varying names.
the clouds frown upon the specks that dwindle by.
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