the moment he turned
and walked away
our world became peckinpah
i can no longer discern
whose blood
my hands are weeping over
Categories
aayoungPoetry, Prose, Art, Curiosities
aayoungthe moment he turned
and walked away
our world became peckinpah
i can no longer discern
whose blood
my hands are weeping over
2 replies on “ghost light”
The ghost light is always on.
The Wild Bunch lives in our sneakers.