Poezja

The city hisses Leather'd serpent cries,
An icy reminder to the proud Native American graves,
Paved over,
Whose voices still haunt us,
Like velcro slowly being ripped apart,
A sound that clinches the jaw,
In agony of unknown,
Is merely a pan we'll hold under the water drips,
Leaking through the roof.
Each drip pluses with your heart beat,
While your eyes adjust to the dull tick of time,
On old clock strung over head,
5 mintues late,
It's counter broken,
To live here is to always be present in recent past,
Lookin' out the window into the present future.