At the Shady Inn
Thus we came and went
in the quaking dawn.
Puppets on a string
caught up in this game.
Reckon we will burn.
Bind my soul then.
My hands are soiled
dirty work done.
Yet it feels right.
I love you
sounds so trite
in this doom.
Back door.
Shade's drawn
at noon.
Fools.
Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2013
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