False Comfort

These streets once had a name and a thousand words to say

voids make placeholders of the empty shells

whose memories were laid waste

and these vague tombstones mark the graves

of the forgotten remains

while the man with the plan from Texas

spreads gray lies across the white radio waves

drowning men realize their worth

happily fed clowns scratch one another’s scaly backs with mirth

The Saints are crying over the dead

in the city that care forgot

 

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About binaryLady

Front-End Wiz and Full stack developer

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