Friday, July 27, 2012


There is a gray place with ragged homes.
The pigeons fly when prisoners flee.
Running on makeshift roofs to be gone.
A dark spot that new policemen fear.
Little people live quiet at night.
Sunrise reveals blood from unknown might.

Within four walls in faded yellow;
Even if they kept the truth outside,
Don’t need to look in order to know.
Know no evil, go on, and deny.
He can lock himself up as they kill,
Or he can get out, be killed, or kill.

Very strange place that’s not for poems.
But what’s not for poems just like them?

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