Exceptional Dreams can deliver or bury us A motel called home by Sergeant Floyd

I read one of the little rascals died. He drove a cab and lived in a motel. All the promise of youth lived out so fast and so young. The fresher the rose, the more the pain watching it wilt. Tears cried early take the longest to dry. Was his Machu Picchu a bawdry neon sign? Did his first fare deliver him to hell? Did his rosary break in the dark scrambling the pearly beads of Glory Be across decades of yellow linoleum? High rent castles in the clouds. Recognized

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