days bleed on

young blood cut from veins,
snaking through rock to new lives the same,
derided away chastised to the gray,
beg for the witness as souls rot away.
dry aspersions cast on hope,
clipped cynical tongues crumble the days,
to decimate the love lost on gambling and fray;
every old love every new hope every loose night,
that let spill our gold needles into endless wet hay.

were we not butting heads all that week, month, day,
were we not broken before we started to play,
born evil little shit heads ready to say,
the wrong thing to the meek mild grieving prey,
were we not just as sullen as hard as set clay,
 as the priests who force fed us:
 geese flocking, to scared to stray