She sits upon a golden fence
with the translucent skirt seeping
golden through lazy half-moons
while he rummages up a rusted key
like its meant for the garage corner,
spits slowly onto the dry ground,
muttering in slow whisper his queue.
Those masked bandits dining
on moonlight shied, harvesting their
alter egos while rabbits rub in bushes.
1 comment:
this sounds a lot like a destroyer lyric.
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