The Way Home

owned
by shadows

reviled,
skipped

left behind and
sought off the map

licking your heels
while you run

sudden needle
in your hand in a haystack

wax heart
in a bum’s pocket

invisible tar and blood-flavored nicotine
stained lips

a glance past the barrel of a gun
a restaurant in a reptile graveyard

breathes in your ear
when you sleep

doesn’t move unless seen
from the wrong end

About Tony Brown

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A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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