Architecture

Poem By Kevin and Ann Sawatzky

Plastic christmas with
plastic pleasentries
Crosses pretty in a row
in flanders field
the heroin grows
waiting to be picked
and pushed into
junkies veins
with building
shaped syringe
tree touching the
sky
the ultimate high
it touches the clouds
with floral fingers
and wilted palms

Stroke the wind and
grasps for the fleeting
feel of freedom
that fills the heart and
blinds the mind
to the reality of it

There is no freedom at all

Comments about Architecture

Absolutely correct, there is no freedom at all. Men, women and children that become addicted to any drug, are up against one of the biggest fights they will ever have in life.--Thanks for writing this, people must be made aware, I wrote, Crack, Mrs Heroine & A drugged up prostitue, if you have time, take a look. Very good poem---Melvina


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