dirty fingers
invoke
the evening soil
dirty fingers
invoke
the evening soil
hope is a tricky thing the light fades
dusk trimming the dead plant branches
edge of cosmos the alcohol works its magic
the grey world explodes into neon
thought train running on alcohol and grins
slow crawl to the light end of tunnel
moist soil soft hands plunge in
leaves hang lifeless death a thin thread
consoled by artificial lights an itch remains