I've walked on this long street,
the distance stretching out before oneself.
Yes,
this road I've traveled down many times.
Motels for short stays,
houses seemingly empty,
the repair shops to fix what's already broken.
Past the mortuary
with the same sickly-sweet smell of oranges.
How it lingers.
Trying to cover what's already dead and gone.
1 comment:
when I'm dead, I plan to be embalmed in rose hip honey.
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