All That Remained Were Words...
...alongside (the many) mercenary stones that still indicate mossy unmarked graves...
You seem listless in redundant twisted grey/green peaky cap as you leave the windowless corner caff. Your beard is wild and your eyes still sing of lost love and addiction.
Your days among these gravelly pits and cobbled streets is drunken... with local traders dealing in loose change, cans of strong cider and 24 hour park lives spent drinking, lying and dying.
Eventually you too will be burned in the tight verge leaving only your words:
1..2..3 You Can't Kill Me!
Digbeth, Birmingham
2025
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