Plastic christmas with
plastic pleasentries
Crosses pretty in a row
in flanders field
the heroin grows
waiting to be picked
and pushed into
junkies veins
with building
shaped syringe
tree touching the
sky
the ultimate high
it touches the clouds
with floral fingers
and wilted palms
Stroke the wind and
grasps for the fleeting
feel of freedom
that fills the heart and
blinds the mind
to the reality of it
There is no freedom at all
Kevin and Ann Sawatzky
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/architecture/
