004.

April 25, 2008

Child of mine

this days nearly done

show me your teeth

and they'll rot in the sun, over time

I'll find you and your daughters

twisting through flames

in clothes made of twine and

and your fathers distaste

They will burn, over time.

Girl come to me

through the woods you must run

past the place that you see

a man pointing his gun

in the direction of your own friends.

Placing your fingers in notches and holes

looking for existence that nobody knows

how things go, over time.