A soul ponders the encounter of a friendly smile.
The wind pushed the sail, dry and cold...tiresome an old.
But layered under feet of soot, cold dead ash that runs my blood,
dripping on curled milk...
that smile wipes away from the fringes of silk.
Butter me up she said,
greasy fingers roll up an down as the simple things
lay down dead.
Fed up yeah. A direction that heads straight
as my heart is strung up waiting as bait.
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