Cordial and unlucky.
Awaiting with causality toward yesterday.
Upholding many hours past midnight.
An ill lit embankment to instill a traveler’s fright.
No one is born unto a shift by the graveyard.
Poetically speaking, the role of walking dead no more different from…
portraying a fly at the bar.
A limp for the narrow figures that wander far.
The appearance of black opiates dance like sugar cane in a diluted mind.
Visions of unassuming white vans seem to be…just waiting on a friend.
In the ominous role of third shift…the rules can bend.
Metallic taste absolves in the mouth and soul.
Fear is lessened.
A lack of care for the person…not quite whole.
No mention made of ‘being young or growing old.’