Monday, September 27, 2004


A sea of sad faces
with fear in their sadder eyes
waiting to be picked out
to be butchered
they wield canes and guns
and a wicked mouth
to curse and spit
on their brothers
armbands to mark us,
isn't a hollow walking dead
enough a sign
to choose your toy?
yes, they lock me up
to be carted
to the slaughter house,
my stop-over.
and there better be a god
for i'll command him
to let them stay immortal
in the hell i shall build.
i'll make bricks
from their bones
and with their guns
the scaffolding
i'll dig up all their words
to write nightmares
filled with their screams
in the eternal burning...

1 comment:

shiv said...

nice, this is one of the best of the lot you have here...