Boots Left Hanging | Richard William Kirkpatrick-Thorne

Dirty Black,
Road Like A Ribbon That Stretches For Miles,
Stealing Nautical Glory From Any Landed Shark,
With Its Fair Share Of Allure And Cripples,
Six Feet From The Gravel Or Its Gold,
Down To The Reservoir To Break It For A Ditch…

Smokeing Smooth-Shogun Soul Spilling Out From A BullDozer’s Blasted
Checkered Shirted Engineers Of The Endorphin Bum-Rush Pulling Its

With Ghosts And Prostitutes Hooking Their Hitches Off The Level…

White Collared,
ATypical UnTill Typically By The WaySide Evangelical And Tight,
Sniffing Out The Details… Droplets Of Blood On The Braille,
CrossRoads Dusty To Trust The Hanged Man’s Tree With Scratched
Six Feet From The Grave Or Its God,
Up To The Bough To Make It For A Witch.

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