the psychedelic room
almost turned into a tomb;
the fake roses on the window sill witled,
and we fell in love with comfort and built it -
painted it to be exact - on a mural of addiction.
can psychedelic poetry be classed as fiction?
there’s blood in the toilet, ashes on the carpet,
and the bowls still weep; the angel departed.
this psychedelic room is a tomb for the living,
and sadly they’re the ones who tend to be forgiving.
Luka.
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