Chills grow on this flesh
From the cold air of night,
Darks of the rounds
Power through with might,
A faint strumming echoes in the distance
Tickles these ears with promise,
It’s a fight. Fight. Fight.
Strong on a day
Filled with gray
Never-ending pleasure in sight,
Coffee grounds
Webbed in between toes
Black, so black it’s light,
Growing with angst
Sleep in this place
Wake up here flawless,
It’s what’s right. Right. Right.
© LRS 2011
