Maple Street

the man painted by the children lies
on the cement walls
touched with cries
from the bridge up high
runs over his eyes
filled with his own demise
is the man with a sign
lungs filled with sighs, vision seeing spies
always waiting for that sun to shine
the train races time
while I sit to make this rhyme
and the metal continues to dye
and the sun remains shy.

One thought on “Maple Street

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