We make homes in cozy alleyways
Ignoring putridly sweet scents that
fill our crimson nostrils while we
warm bitter hands and pallid faces
by the flames of burning scraps
of discarded memories
And lie in beds made of the birth place of roaches
And scratch at uncombed beards
as we wait for the inevitable day
when the rats will eat our faces
About the Creator
Aaron Morrison
Born during a (___natural disaster___), Aaron spends his free time exploring (___unusual location (plural) ___) and raising domesticated (___fictional creature (plural)___).
Author of LUNARTIC (and other poems)
insta: @theaaronmorrison
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