Grips You seem to be falling out,like fading away, playingfool/goof/phantom/drunken joketo grown up little boys and girlsacross sad broken south Philly homesthat chug and churn like the machinesof the past regurgitating oldmemories onto old faces and wrinklesof the mourning night tooclose to sunrise to remember—too locked in twisted hornswith dead things, meaningless thingsthat need to be…

This content is for Friends of Burningword 3-Day Pass, Friends of Burningword 3-Month Subscription, Friends of Burningword Annual Subscription and Basic Member members.
Log In Register
%d bloggers like this: