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Final Stop

Final Stop


The twenty in his pocket

Is screaming to be burned

It could buy a week’s worth of food

But he’ll take a hit from a tarnished spoon

And a needle cleaned by his saliva


He feeds off it like a horse to water

His belly’s screams go unheard

He is shaking in clothes

Months of this city pile in the fabric

And it’s 92 degrees at 10 am


Sanity is an illusion

And the streets are a maze

Hustled with no end in sight

Life is barely sustained

In 2 hour increments


His finger buried up his nose

Trying to scratch the itch

Deep in his head

That never goes away

Where god is screaming his name


A merry go round

Full of headless horses

Is the ride that he can get on

His is the machinery

Ground to a final stop

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