A Short poem
The overwhelming bleak and bitter taste
like the lingering taste of bile
stuck in the throat of despair,
Opiates of pleasure, purpose
rise, come down
That red wagon, pulled along side streets in the dusk
but they won't be enough
and they won't all fit.
Filled up already
with herbs of sweetness.
The daylight will expose the cracks, the cracks in the street
as we walk