you stand in line
for liquid bread
with your thin dime

newspaper matress
you lick your lips
a cardboard box
will.be your crypt

sad
forsaken
so forlorn
your façade is *****
tattered
worn

the gold was stolen
from your vaults
passersby see only faults

the picket fence
around your heath
is as broken
as your teeth

the many choices
you have made
have sunk you to
an early grave

you're self-abusive
destruction bent

your temple is a

TENEMENT**


SoulSurvivor
(C) 6/17/2016