On a highway, middle of the road, pitch white dry summer day
across the country, a child dies, and no one cares.
It all just kind of ends
to the pressure; every slow nightmare we decay through dries up. I grieve for the voice of the old factory
as the children dance in the shadow of disinterested evil. This world
will eventually heal, it will be through blood
The venerable offspring of life, let this throne be yours.
I HOPE THAT THE CITY LOVES YOU AS WE HAVE LOVED IT