Perish Room

Everyone's got a story
Too sordid to tell.
Drifting down esplanades,
Summer monsoon swells.

He believes in the afterlife,
Angels ring in his head.
An eldest frame and a Lenin suit,
Angels fly in his head.

We were gone in the afternoon,
He left a note on the door.
Yellow fever burial ground,
Salvation, your reward.

Make the stone encourage him,
He speaks not what is right.
Without hope or family,
A solemn way to die.