The Dreamer
Deep in the hidden valley where pink orchids grow a Bob Dylan look alike sits on a boulder and read a book about the Shoguns when not strumming his battered guitar or fishing for eels, which blood he uses to write songs that one day will make him famous but only if he loses his NYY cap. Orchids are no longer pink but dark as dead eels’ ink he has no paper to write on his guitar lacks strings sirens wails crack heads scream here in this sink estate where life is cheap and beauty is a name no one dares whisper.
|