The honest eyes of a broken new born breaks me down.
Grandfather clock is running out of time;
these pills are overwhelming me as the carved old man cries.
His red mother has beaten him with loving bats,
While his son eats from an apple tree.
My identity is stolen from me;
My traveling time turns into a fine left in the mail.
Silence is spoken, my family is dead.
The beaches are empty, my pillow case is dry.
This doesn’t make sense.
Still, I have honor from the music we create in prison.
I have joy from her voice…
No comments:
Post a Comment