Dead flowers, confiscate the universe.
Dead souls, a line drawn through the red
clay road, scattered white crosses of sadness,
strewn as the headlights twinkle and fade.
A loner a vagabond, a stranger passing through
hopping trains drinking from his silver flask and
that blessed fifth of whiskey, stolen from a homeless
man in an alleyway, behind the old dilapidated church.
They say the night’s for lovers, I say it’s to nurture
pain, that festers between the tattered blinds of some
cheap hotel on the outskirts of Albuquerque.
Another shot of this majestic potion? Is better than any
22 calibre in the brain. Another night is fine by me, yet
it’s the days that I just can’t seem to take.