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The Man In The Hotel Room

(Chris Cornell)

The dealer always collects his debts

a ring heard in the spider reams of spring.

A thought to his black mare, but this strange glare—

The dealer always collects his debts

A ring, a thimble, a scream.

suitor and midwife, Chinese eyes

A thought to his black mare, but here this strange glare—

scarlet in spring; a ring borne 

In the siren song

of a hot, empty spring.

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Comments

could be about a western gambler in a hotel room reflecting on his losses, but I might be dead wrong. I like the mystery.
Ali

The dedication to Cornell is abstract

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