Sunday, June 7, 2015


Missiles out of the blue
Is a string of pretty sounds,
A whistling in the woods,
In the dark, the park
Preferable to wasting
Alone in a room
On wards designed for it. 
Thus, I envy the ones
We bug-splat,
We liberate
From pain’s old age,
And its foot-tapping goodbye. 
Lucky bullseye bastards
Is the way I see them.

No comments:

Post a Comment