I Can Taste It

Floor boards creaking,

Cracked and withered hands

stretching toward more

etheral bodies strewn about

in your mind's absent core,

 

Where are the hollow ones?

The ones without purpose

who are a mess with distant age,

The ones who count

Out loud and live without fear,

Thinking is a chore

for those without privilege

 

Somewhere there's

A house with a knob,

a pair, and a care

lost in the south

knowing not where

but I press onwards, brothers and sisters-

Lax in tasks

Low on gas

the tank ran out

but the body still lasts,

 

Am I uneasy is

a question not for

polite dinner conversation

when your station

can't wait for the plate

you've loaded for gestation,

A smile and a fork

a while to retort

and your rebuttle

is akin to a loss of skin

a fine wine still uncorked,

you are stealth left in the dust

as bark on the trees

you are seasoned in surroundings

 

be it not for the devil

you would burn before god,

leaving the child

to be left to the rod,

without a dad

so to say

in his own little pod

he conspires against us,

When an adult does roam

he'll climb his way up

to rule on a throne

and remember the ones

who shit on his bones,

Ripped out his home,

Split up his parents

when he was barely grown,

A knock on the door

from a stranger still,

a call on the phone

with anger builds,

the horror told

makes him a sinner

a new beginner is born,

The seeds have been broadcast

to starry eyes of fate

for the hours are lodged

and the dead men are late

we

watch

you

slumber

then thunder

 

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