we are sinners, we are saints, we can only guess anymore. we have only old scrapbooks and clippings of hair left from the past, and the path ahead is strong with the stench of the swamp, but you must reach your destination. we are criminals, we are cops, we can only prophesize. we have only billboard signs to point the way forward, and the stench from the weeds littered on the gravel road is rich and makes you dizzy, but you must reach your destination.Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Lex la Dezerti - Leo.