This jungle is more dessert like these days it is merely waiting for the rains to wash these days away the dust rises each morn although it never sleeps and fills these spaces between our breaths the roads are choked with the scurrying of a frightening pace what color are the dreams made of money for out there the war rages the have and have not whom god loves and whom she does not
the days approach me from my simple perch surfer green walls and railings June liked the color but itβs been over four years since I found her dead on the floor it is a poorly done painting now the surfer green hue spread across a canvas of my wanderings and the pulsing language of the conqueror (it screams at me in the night) I cannot wait as the jungle does too much flesh and blood we outcasts used to be left alone here but the money is calling us out we are dissolving waiting for the rain to wash this all away