by Michael Plante

Plumes released into the night sky
a million stars to play with
street dancers call out to dreamers
wanting more than they can handle.

A piece of luxury upon my pipe
pays the rent above the soil
hell pays the price when the wicked come to rest
like the rust that consumes heaven’s gates.

We all chase illusions under the eyes of God
deluded ass-wipes we are
sucking on nipples of greed for more
manifesting desires for our own leisure.

You call it crack
I call it living.

All compositions that appear on The Poet’s House are composed by Michael Plante and are subject to copyright.

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