It's three in the morning.

Food for thoughts

There was a lass,
who was too old to be called a lass.
And a cop,
who's too old to be anything else.
In the blurry, undefined, dull. Suburban.

There was a kid in rural country,
who's too fund of this world,
to be living in this century.

There was a bum, in the city,
who's too fond of freedom,
late night shows at the outskirt club,
hard substance,
to live for anything else.

There is a lanky young man in a four cornered black room, without windows.
Who made one too many youthful indiscretions.
Now he's locked up,
by the everlasting cage of his flesh,
and the itch in his head,
forearm
chest
behind his eyes
would eat his guts out, gradually, eventually.

One day he decided to get rid of the itch,
by creating a new one,
It broke him, and reshaped him,
Grind him into a paste,
and forged back in a mold.
It lit him up, burned off the previous itch.

That day, he started writing the story,
of the lass, the cop, and the bum.
They made him,
So he remade them from memories.