Our Father who art in heaven, during the emptiest of days, dark cascades over our fields. Blades of grass cry themselves to suicides, praying to be thorn crowns, Their bodies are crushed under these possessed men.
I have never sinned, but last night, when the bullet spun madness out of Mary, I cursed you, tongue bleeding with every offense, spilling my self onto the floor, hollowed be my name, now gutted of scripture and hymn.
Thy kingdom come, in droves, a slow death on the horizon, life asleep in its gaze, hunger screaming from a tundra of stomachs.
When the low growls found ways into our streets I gave the boys weapons, told them to pray after every shot, that we were doing God's work, but my faith is a lover lifeless in the kitchen. Lord, when did mortals become tattered bibles?
4/30 - Untitled - Part I
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during the emptiest of days,
dark cascades over our fields.
Blades of grass cry themselves
to suicides, praying to be thorn crowns,
Their bodies are crushed under
these possessed men.
I have never sinned,
but last night, when the bullet
spun madness out of Mary,
I cursed you, tongue bleeding
with every offense, spilling my
self onto the floor,
hollowed be my name,
now gutted of scripture and hymn.
Thy kingdom come,
in droves, a slow death on
the horizon, life asleep in
its gaze, hunger screaming
from a tundra of stomachs.
When the low growls found
ways into our streets
I gave the boys weapons,
told them to pray after every shot,
that we were doing God's work,
but my faith is a lover
lifeless in the kitchen.
Lord, when did mortals
become tattered bibles?