Автор: Lime Lester

Лиза Ройт

Sprawled on covers,
Fingers brushing slightly
The hardwood floor
Your half-dead rockstar
Mouths to you
Throat all sore-
Chamomile tea, mon cher

This city holds
No prisoners,
No reasons to stay true-
Come up with ways
To keep away from all
That used to be
Your god and your guru

The snake's made its way
Down your spine,
Circled around your neck,
Hissing into your ears-
Leave now, where's your pride?
He knows no love,
He won't be looking back