Every echoed cricket wood
I walked the dark nights
lone road home,
every time, picket poke-stick would,
still bleeding this dead body lone.
I called the News.
Daylight, joggers see.
Starbucks lid in disrespect tossed on bruise.
But no one came for Thee.
No one wants to see,
as if you could shut off eyes
like lights.
Big T truth made into Disney doll
so Central stays a Park,
real heart stopping stuff,
to passerby is fluff
wheezing on no ears and stinging
not one other Eye. Here.
But my breathless worry
this last one long night
are those skipped I send to you,
lest you air to rise --
and kill for good
this cartoon hood,
Phoenix, burnt demise.
For sake of Christ trapped cave
TNT the Way,
either let the Truth decay
or bury it today,
but look upon its suffering and say...
Pass.
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