(I wrote this at seventeen)
forced rhymes and chain link fences. Statues for what we believe in. Manicured lawns and leathered faces, callous flowers in winter’s dead hands. Parking garages with night faces and preachers giving reasons for living. Graveyards beside elementary schools in small towns, like baseball diamonds with Easter Island Faces. Fireflies with the souls of innocent children. Old men and old women decaying and we call that word death. Epitaphs scribbled in park benches. Small white houses and time like moments scattered in distant voices. The Razor’s Edge. The razor’s reflection, forced faces.
September 