a warm gun, on a cold night
coincidental murder, with nothing left to show
bodies dancing in perfect rhythm and time
the dance of the dead, never seen before
the red in his eyes, a vagabond
and where he lays his head is his home
soul for sale (lock up your wife and children now)
YOU ARE READING
screams of no reply
Adventureperhaps our time is limited; perhaps we live on borrowed times 2020 © neil
