dying Lowell guilt colored

Who believes the alley way
secrets stashed between her cobbled stones?

Who believes in poets now
as the music's left their bones?

Trip along the weft of fate
waltz the warp of time

Who knows the middle name
of my most petty crime

peace wrapped in my sordid dreams,
each fat at six-foot-tall

It is painful in serenity
behind these old brick walls.

Who believes the mills at dawn
the canals so late at night?

Who believes in hungry rats
well cooked.. have a bite.