A Confession
Something eats away at him
buries the past, blurs the future
grabs the soul and won’t let go
But what is it, pray tell
clinging to the bottom
of his being…
Caterwauling through dark alleys
gunshots pierce hazy air
madmen in rags sprawl on
stoops of wear and tear…
A confession crosses his parted lips
the truth being – Does he even care
to stop and smell what’s there
or pause to pluck a red rose rare
Copyright © Gershon Wolf | Year Posted 2024
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