We hung out on the edge,
in the border towns,
creating havoc,
a little bit of mayhem,
injecting Boone’s Farm,
perusing the streets
with insurrection etched
into our skins,
crying acid rain.
Imbibed,
flying higher
than the highest kites
& fluttering in the wind,
we walked scarecrow-like,
against the grain.
And if you looked in our eyes,
you’d swear we were touched,
touched by more than
anything sacred,
not from above
but from far below,
in a place near Hell’s gates,
we doled out pain.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 2:30 PM UTC
We hung out on the edge,
in the border towns,
creating havoc,
a little bit of mayhem,
injecting Boone’s Farm,
perusing the streets
with insurrection etched
into our skins,
crying acid rain.
Imbibed,
flying higher
than the highest kites
& fluttering in the wind,
we walked scarecrow-like,
against the grain.
And if you looked in our eyes,
you’d swear we were touched,
touched by more than
anything sacred,
not from above
but from far below,
in a place near Hell’s gates,
we doled out pain.
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