A souvenir of the world left behind
For no matter where we go, a pity
We fill the sewers in our mind
The grinder in the gut, churning
The pain and discomfort, melt into one
The dumpster fire of thoughts, burning
Shadows dance to eclipse the sun
Waking up wrapped in needles and pins
Covered in the stink of an alien reflection
Black book, black ink, jotting down the sins
Blood, sweat, tears, come all in one
The whispered prayers go unanswered
The fog now covers the ground for miles
The roads forgotten, engine swerved
The bastard in the rear view mirror smiles
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I left this unwritten for the longest time. I guess every poem needs to gestate.
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