Posse's

savages. arms muscular and tatooed - a radio, wine bottle and cross, and they've tried to wash them clean but failed, to hide the hideous acts of their past and to predict those they have yet to commit. thieves. shadows clingining from wall to door, who's reflections in the glass eyes of their victim recall to mind a young man dark hair dark eyes. a man just like yourself or i. who blends into the anymonity of the night. pimps. in suits with bow ties and crooked smiles and walking canes too, trampling over hookers bloody and bruised. smeered lipstick they assure me, but i know better. have seen all the limps and scars far gone minds smoking in the backs of bars. and she weeps on us all and i weep with her. i swear each night there's one less star in the sky.