We travel home with nothing
On top of the dome.
These streets clear with the verse
That God's got nothing but a curse
For our home.
The city's clear, sleeping at night
In its wake.
Nothing but nightmares of
Robbers bringing knives to a
Gun fight.
She's a grandeous claim, the fame,
Mystery's in the name.
Her fame -- skyrocketed,
her pennies pick pocketed.
That we're left there in her wake.
YOU ARE READING
Rêveries ✓
Poetrylove poems to strangers i'll never meet; an ode to heartbreak and the bleak divine-ness of it all. All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2020 by Kate H.
