All those chances you took,What have you got to show?
Those red shoes, and tight white dress
Such a mess, resuscitate.
Those dogs smell revenge,
Out for a taste of inner thighs,
You can mask discontent
But it's hardly a disguise.
So, what to make of this?
Burning sand and stuttering time,
Funneled into mouth
To shape the way you outlive your crime.
Got to make it right now.
Got to make it right.
God is funny to you,
But the punchline is lost.
digital, slr and camera phone photos by k.boyce. words and photo © 2008 by k. all rights reserved; nothing may be reproduced without written consent of theeverlastingfunstopper
