Matter Of Ghosts Poem by chris bowen

graves cave.a hand waves in awe and raw hate.it wont be too late to run but i hope your swallowing's done.the fun in hot sun over.go know her, death, it wont be crystal meth in the chest.a vest so old it tells tales grown cold.a bold man once, worked for ponce deleon.now he's on, hells agreement.the freemen slave, the night wont behave.to summer say the wave is enthusiasm and back spasms.thats the trick of ghost plasma.to ask my mom, i brought the quija board on.she was dead on the lawn like a fawn shot.she was all i got.