Lace

The day would almost be

perfect

Except we're allhere

shuffling through the path

swimming in the sunlight, in a

sweatbath

waiting for the lace to drift,

in these seats, not yet drunk

in the suit of while using my vice, close to a man with nothing

nice

on or to say, he just came to ruin the day

steal their stuff, kidnap and act tough

so he can have fun in the woods

just waiting for the lace to drift.

and she'll throw the flowers right

into my hands

his eyes will meet mine, and

burn into them like a hot iron brand

pushing our souls in the

sand together

so now we go, in the dark, to

the land of slammers and pops

where whiskey is a river

and memories never stop

waiting for the lace to ruin

and now it's mine she's pursuing

and they all look at me like:

"what are you doing?"

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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