Blind to misery #3310

Sleepwalking with a wooden Indian, drums in my head; the music of oblivion.
Freight yard ghosts melt in the rain, while someone’s daughter searches for a vein.
Lost dogs form a pack that sits still in shadows waiting to attack.
Sirens singing from all directions, flashing lights and reflections.
Hands held high in the air, reaching up without a prayer.
Good old boys drinking kerosene, as scarecrows dream of methamphetamine.
Missy Colorado is curled up in a cardboard box. She’s not moving, off the clock.
I’m in hell, far as I can see, just wishing I was blind to misery.