the homeless are my saints.
they fall prey to every hope,
every dream-- one or two you've
held for granted. the smell on
their hands is every last one you left,
thinking lost thoughts, wondering
whatever happened to you.
dead friends, dead enemies,
are all the same: the shit on their hands
is every last thought you've ever had
of lost loves, lost ideals.
sweet goddess shadow trick yourself,
I see you flickering throughout
the helpless city: greed dies the strongest
on the last breath of a dead alley drunk.
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