THUG LIFE

Motor cycle brine, you greasy thug.
His name is Shiloh, he is watching.
Inside he burns, insdie he waits.
Gunpowder sits on his lap, his mistress.
Smoke composes symphonies in his lungs.
He's getting high again.
He could be death, if it were.
A stranger.
Let him in your home, know him well or not at all.
The soft slither of his eyes can kill a man.
His hands, full of filth, etched with time and ink.
He reads aloud a bible all his own.
A will of sorts.
The leather worn across his shoulder's sighs.
"Come the mighty, Come the tall,
Death casts his spell on all.
Man may come, but will perish.
Up to him what he should cherish."
A joint burns out on the table.
The smell of sorrow turns him slowly to sleep.