The 6th Floor
On the 6th floor.
Skyline torn
by thunderstorm.
Below me only air
and asphalt.
Standing at my window,
one step from murder
early morning.
Yawning.
Stretching.
Beer in hand
I light up,
inhaling that first toke.
Exhaling fragments
of dreams of
men with
yellow teeth
and black hearts
who did wrong
and love that
did not
last.
Oh, for the troubled toils
of rich kids
heads and bellies
full of liquid bread.
poem by Carsten Thomsen
Added by Poetry Lover
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