Alice dusts the smoke off her shoes
We are in the cement bunker
We wash our wounds as the clock turns
All we can think about is the cans
The air is turbulent
We take stock in the cabinet
The smell of the day overwhelms us
We are no longer young
We search for the city
All we have is dreams
Wash down the powder
Lie in the bed
The mess is too much to bear
Alice dusts the smoke off her shoes
We are in the cement bunker.
Showing posts with label Wounds - 8/7/18. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Wounds - 8/7/18. Show all posts
Sunday, 8 July 2018
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