Heathen Undertow

They take crows from the grave to make toenail clippings into magazines

No one’s telling twice whether we mean for reading or shooting

The camera is the gun

We mean we do we run

And go on

The heathens in between carry twice the load to the mountaintop

We breathe their air and steal their time

Because they have too much to give

Without knowing why it ever took them astray

I line up in my mind

Ready for the firing squad

It will never come

Time will kill me first

And the molecular clock

Keeps on ticking…

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