As things slowly progress-
There's hardly a soul that

Remains picking scavengers

Ragpickers - There are no degrees
1st 2nd 3rd

They just know when there's nothing left to do

They have the instincts, they know
How
It's done.
So any way you get by

-Take a route more traveled
Halfway around you'll find someone else
Alabaster faces
Turning around the facade, picking out, apart the busted glass

This and that,
And spun about in chaos, if the wind tangles a few
Russet beards, they
Get (take! stolen away) over their sad targets, because
Even without thinking,
These people ignore the old ritual

(by comparison to any abode, they're equal anyway)

Habits of humor
And if you wait for twilight
The dusky remnants of grassy knolls
Explain themselves in blue hate,

Struggling to push ahead in this twisted newborn world

07/18/2005

Author's Note: Found this from a while ago. Apparently, I was experimenting with subliminality. I guess it at least sorta comes across right.

Posted on 07/18/2005
Copyright © 2025 Corey Lockaby