Inner city inside out

by Jo Hart | Posted in Fiction

The smell of hair
grease of skin
blood stains on cold sterling silver
penetrating my nostrils
as I vomit.

The city has me occupied
resides in my pores
my sores
my poor sore eyes.

And I am blinded
not by light
but by the moaning
ROAR
of people
robbed of their sight.

For they are looking
in all the wrong places.

They are scouting
with doubt across their faces.

But doubt not
fear not
for I will keep on
gagging.

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