she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.
she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.
a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.
the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.
and when that door
slams
shut
the prisoner of light asks,
"where have all the flowers gone?
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 3:19 PM UTC
she walks prospect avenue in the rain.
dead eyes, sore feet
the flowers have wilted into
the shadows of acceptance.
she finds the corner
and the last light lit,
wants a match for her cigarette.
a ****** that has found her god.
a needle and a bed of thorns.
the beep from a car's horn,
so a customer waits,
swings open a rusty gate.
and when that door
slams
shut
the prisoner of light asks,
"where have all the flowers gone?
