I kill the dead
leaves crisping brown
leave only flakes behind
I strew their entrails
as dust jacketed
across the walk
Their corpses snipped from twigs
by gusts of air recycled
by we parasites
they flutter helpless over concrete
skeletons of springtime past
betrayed by nature
Rubber soul sinks
crunches autumn
sifts its thinly threaded veins
the consequence
a mutilated remnant
once unbroken green
collapsed into itself
to humor modern man
who kills dead for their music
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
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