look you, mortal bent
nothing new, all is lent
standing on the shoulders
of the shoulders and
the shoulder of the shoulders before
this is human
the hope for the clearing
the open
the door
make haste before
the setting of the sun
the running clock of your
creation
oh man oh man
oh son of a whore
the only women in your story
are those in your store
bend now and twist
your game’s run afoul
a fowl in the henhouse
the fox on the prowl
its yellow eyes gleam
like the heart of a sun
the fire in the breast
same as in the
human
she walks through the sand
sword in hand
waiting for the dripping blood
to land and
from that holy cycle
hellish is
man
No comments:
Post a Comment