Explosive,
My prose if,
Falls on ears wrong,
Staying years long,
I am empty and ill,
An abandoned church,
With petrified will,
Though my hands often lurch,
Claimed by many a mouth,
My mind their home,
But I bear no doubts,
Only books I call my own.
I wonder what makes me What keeps me From seeing Leaving I wonder what takes me Sweeps me Off my feet A dirty murderer so neat I wonder...
Veins of steel Heart of gold Someone so full No jar can hold So now you flood With my blood Color your scarf red Everything in your path...
From snow and blood, Comes a man untouched, In virtue and verse, Through her letters terse, A wayward fire, In work and tire, Unravels...
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