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• Artiste: Poor Bailey
• Titre: A Gutter Procession
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The gutter procession, it's a slow depression. And my tree becomes a skeleton, it's ghost haunts the front yard. A stone wall to stand you up, a sidewalk to lead you on. Memories gather in the street below, the candles you lit let the end be told. Unlike the poem I wrote and stapled to your wall. 'Cause the rain has not yet fallen and the morning's yet to come. The evening saves its misery for the end to set the sun. And the hollow calls. I'm eating pomegranate seeds on the sidewalk of my street, born to breathe in tragedy. I'm raking leaves, they won't stop falling on me, they're always falling on me. Between the brick, beyond the bars. It's what you were, not who you are. The closet locks, the windows close. The voice it calls and anyway it's all I know. So if your following well then let's go. Come on fall into the hollows. 'Cause the rain has not yet fallen and the morning's yet to come. The evening saves its misery for the end to set the sun. And the hollow calls.