Swallows Despair

in the city of strangers I was born and horses knew it as the voice of the sad path roads between my fingers befuddled the weeds of the cross translating the pain he had me the make-up artist of the devil, he had black spots on white his skin he had wings of the Swan Lake but he was ridden by the thunder of his conscience that calls along the swallows despair red reins of poverty that are seen and avoided as people in the Dew eat even better together than to ask advice about the bread that was hooked to the moon harsh duvets and puffed into the air through his veins from meat and withered trees that sparkle along the paths of storms that were cuddling on a bed of roses