Saturday, August 23, 2014

Walking The Line

Cash hands out a line about hurt 
An you know what I mean as the weeks trail on , 
Words crumble on paper as I type 
I can't find them , the lamp shade grows dim 
My mask hides a lions den 
I'm pacing waiting for the slaughter  

Only that it's dead winter , we know our fate 

I picture the dawn warm 
Every morning 

As this month closes 
Another book 
Another poem