Child with plucked, dying, wilting, writhing weeds in their hair
Mismatched colours on their knuckles to deflect from the gray wasteland where they sleep
When weeds turn into snakes that feast on the carnage of their despair
Look away from their eyes, from the chaos that rests in void thoughts-an abysmal cocoon for fraying sensibilities
That kid sleeps on transparent hopes bordered by tragedy
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PoetryA LIT MATCH IN AN UNLIT HOME THREATENING TO BURN BURN BURN my late night words for late night viewers
