Demic


Where can I go?
Is there anywhere I can go?
The mist is in the air
and it pals with what it wants
The sun shines
and goes down
But, the con artist spins
Its stylish flow
costs a pretty penny
Life then imitates art
the scene is breathtaking
Keeping my distance
with cunning acuity
Still, I know I’m being conned
How long can I turn left
when I wanted right?
Or, do push-ups
instead of side bends?
I’m in the waiting room
with a smooth criminal
that knows the right time
to notify the help
Maybe, I’ll just not
make eye contact
and run from making any
acquaintance
Maybe, I can’t run

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