carving his name in a bullet
kept in a perfume box with flowers from a blurry past
sleeping with the blood oaths that would never last
coveting a custom curse
forged in regret
tempered in the crushing depth of fiction and misery
reared , nurtured , coddled and released into the wild
it will always come home to roost
the bullet with his name sleeps
waiting to be called on
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment