Thursday, November 15, 2007

Stir - With - A - HandGrenade

I stood over the yawning abyss,
(All my sins showing, both mortal and not.)
I saw my brother thrashing on the floor.

What I mistook for death like thrashes
were actually moments of joy.

The hell cavern below,
(the one we all call home)
was a place of repast and repentance and hope.

I stirred the pot, I turned up the heat
I did the dirty dead
that my brother would not ever do.

Signals get crossed
in the fog, in the woods.
Kitties come and go,
Lord knows what they’ve seen.

There are those who live here
but it is not their rightful home,