Hitch

The wrinkled room sunk on a spoon
Wired walls are gristle ground apart
Tarring the hapless howl of each heartbeat
Declared impairment scarred onto folding stars
Homeless from hope where only the dope is sweet
Flexing dementia tension like treacle strewn
Vein drained regret grafted to shafts of cigarettes
Stale inhalation face staple pale from pins
Wraith gaze tracing through pages of waste
Clock rotted time torn for another taste
Black tracks tripping across scabbed skin
Lying limp dim crippled in fetters of sweat
Pools of ridicule chemical blemish bound
Thrusting through rubbish to shred with sickle sound



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