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Poetry How long until your clawing mothers of monsters shake the earth with their worried sunken eyes
Their toothless whispers waking centuries of one eyed handshakes who spit or drool over their chance to bite back
And it will be, their time
Atomic bombs with handsome dark eyes shake hands with wolves over coffee and blood
Grinding their teeth and watching the ever winding clocks that will forever hold them down
Rented rooms in hollow hotels where the bone clerk shouts at nothing but empty time
He'll find
The horizon with the children he killed from the war, playing his shadow games on the wall
Thanks lord, but I don't need any more bad advice
Insect king vibrations melt my mind in symphonies of screams as the world drips down in technicolor rain, washing away what's left of its scribbled songs surrendering in thunder
There is no hell
You are only, what you create
