Painted Death (Interlaced)

Mix the hot drink with my finger-yourself on the bedside-manner are not bad-dreams wake me-upside down in my cell-mate is insane in the headlights of my broken-thoughts are controlled on the hillside-tavern, I clean my mess-up with the rag of time-travel, I must go to the Church of confession-boxes are stacked on the walls of Green Painted Death.

 

©Timothy Grassan

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