by J.J. Campbell
a foggy morning
on a holiday
monday
we trip on the
shielded light
of two glorious
moons
cascade down
a boulevard of
broken humans
waiting on the
hand of god
they offer me
scripture and i
hand them a rope
the tortured souls
say thank you
the eyes of the
children no longer
have any hope in
them
bleak isn't the
right word
drinking rusty rain
water out of old
clorox containers
you never quite
expect to find the
third world just
down the street
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