They called it the shallow graves, the place where death plays
Spin the broken needle. it snows in July under here.

Under the bridge they huddle in their cardboard palaces ,
psychedelic moments followed by the falling in to oblivions grasp.

They slept in their depthless tombs, blankets hiding that moment
Of alone time where that last hit was the one that hit home.

I watch as so many lives that once were, are now gone, this
Place of broken syringes and dreams. Sleeping in hollow mounds.