the last thing you see before you fall asleep. again.
the bobby pin that breaks up the ashes.
perverted tools.
no one knows what goes on here.
snatches of acapella roll past the grated window
between the scrapings of tin cans rolling by
a teenage girl
an old man
pure soul
deep soul
the last genre to tell the truth...
it's not us, babe
it's the human condition
it's a blessing
that the sun sets last
here
in my room.
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