Clocks

The dagger is the chest.

The bullet becomes the skull.

Nothing remains untainted.

A motherly embrace shifts into murderous grasp,

wisdom mutates into savagery.

Crushing wheel grinds ceaselessly.

     Paths overlap

     into labyrinths demanding answers

     in times where only doubt survives.

            Bless me father,

            give me clarity. 

From rust arises

the womb of days to come

nurtured by lacerated milk

The scythe becomes the cradle

worms roam through their own carcasses

oh

    so

        ever hungry

                     for life.

Winding cycles

naught concluded.

Wandering spirals

forever stretched

lay bare at our distorted eyes.