what's left
after selling your blood for art
when between the pawn shop and the page
you meet the dope man
pop into the corner bar
with the reigning whore of denial
prop your feet up and go to sleep
without dreaming
till the money and luck leave town
turned out with your pockets
searching the mirror for someone to blame
nobody's there
nobody that cares
staring in an old, empty shoe
could have sworn you had another twenty
but your fingers come back empty
reeking of fermented sweat
stinging the cracks
bringing water to tired eyes
you thought made of stone
breath coming slow
heart inured to closure
cold and dry
beating in fits and starts
to spite the devil
moving dust through prolapsed veins
bleeding a new dream
to live by
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