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i hate what
i shoot
a 4 legged
human
crawling
on her feet
i watch
her sad
soullessly
soundlessly
mute as she
perhaps a
mother a sister
a daughter
licks another
mans boots
a branch
of a tree
fallen fruit
her fate
covered
in humanly
soot
a withered
root
time flagrantly
comes stealthily
loots you need
to be a beggar
poet to understand
the pain of a destitute
the lyrics of slow
death from funereal
flute ...its better to
die beg than end up
on the same street
as a prostitute
