Grey eyes lined with silver,
set on a frame of black.
With newspaper folded up tight,
I heard it's laced with crack - *******.

His fingertips are melted,
and her nails are peeling off.
He stuffed his cigarettes in his pocket,
but she took them when he wasn't looking.

I thought the beaty music was a falsity,
but she didn't lie when she told me.
I didn't want to be there,
just a face in their foggy window.

With lines of trying times on tables,
with the ash trays over flowing.
There was nothing left but lies and fables,
like when mom would sing me lullabies.

They don't remember that,
or stickers, or coloring, or-
just the slow patter on asphalt,
as they run from the lights and the sound.

But the tables are turning with concrete,
and their eyes are rolling back dark.
A star light of noise and asphyxiation,
will be such a salt, such a nice destination.