*

leave me
with my meds
and leave
my child
alone
and we'll
be okay.

i pay.
we all pay.
haven't you
grown tired
of the decay
the stench
of your
own
death
my blood
my mother's
my child's
restless
tiny white
glove
that fell
from your
grace

your bastards
don't even
expect
anything
less
than
your
disgrace
this
time.

God
is spitting
out
the dimes
you throw
go pick
them
up
at
the five an ten
and keep
within
my sight
my sins
not yours
to judge
and delight in.

there are no winners
in this last
descent into
pitch black
fork
in hay
you attack
i don't
stick
around
long
enough
to stay
dead
in your
palm
when
mother
is calm
now
and
you
eat
the
seeds
you
reap.

destiny
is mine
this time.

it's been
written.

we leave
your dime
store
joke
and pick
up the
penny and
would rather
choke on it.

Cold Hearted Orb