you’re supposed to always/be the one person in the/Whole/Wide/World/Protecting,/ making sure there aren’t any monsters/hiding under my bed/or in my closet at night.
Winds whip in the cold, and/cool in the heat; rolling on/through the ethos, over/the self and on to the next/self and on to the next.
Applied almost religiously to her grays/Must have been a nod to her youth/To another time when hair did what it was supposed to do/Be a crown of glory.
There’s nothing sadder than a ideal that never blooms/Or the person who reacts and kills, unbalanced or just plain loony toon
Like wind blown convicted spores spread across the prison yard, drifting.../Seeking social associations or pleading institutional brotherly bonds, devotion/To nothing in all honesty but the sentence they must ultimately — deserve
“Hi-Hoe, Hi-Hoe, Snow White/is no more,” they gloriously crow.
You tremble and shake in that special way/Your mouth wide open, and your eyes glazed/You seem to vibrate from within
Does that make me a bad person, because I live by ghetto building codes?