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old stomping ground
it's early winter where i am, already the cold's piercing my eyes they are filled with bone gray as stone. looking up, i wonder. bouncing down this alleyway of lost hopes, trash cans, and tumble-weed newspaper i finish a joint, light a smoke pausing between the two only to watch my breaths unfold and coalesce. i stroll surrounded by empty echoes, dogs shouting truth. if only i knew the language. the falling snow is fascinated with me each flake timidly whispering some secret i already know. my cigarette cackles triumphantly and, as sparks fly, i realize that i may be the only villain left in this city of forgotten heroes. Conceived February 2, 2002
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