Jimson Weed//Ghazal Poem

Before the moon shone, your lies kept going. 
I wondered how my cries stopped going. 
A pebble of mint, tell me your disease,
call out your name, the sugared rye going. 
Take Rodin for example, his mind was woeful, 
inhaling the plaster of Paris, eyes not going. 
A glass of absinthe, midnight spies break teeth, 
leave the girl they say, she tries before going. 
Blissed out on jimson weed, a bubblegum dream, 
sexing the night with burger n’ fries we got going.

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