We have not hills, to lay our bodies down.
Where the sweet meadow grass will meet.
We are gridlock into stagnant, narrow city streets
Where the devil’s work in white chalk lines under zip codes of purgatory.
Every hand to hand, proportions to eat.
Catch a bus, catch a case, catch a plea
Should you escape you’ll turn another corner.
Where the red-fern blood runs through and propositions at will…
Will you sell your soul for a dollar a smile?
This devil we know, these corners we know.
They carry bodies
in white chalk lines.
Corners for sale,
Corners that are forgotten
Unless we should capture
This devil and start all over again
Poetry by Krissy Mosley here is the recorded audio version enjoy