There goes your mother and her plague
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What a terrible display
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Of a charcoaled tongue
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That wouldn’t lend a hand
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Though this dead was a thoughtless act
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With alcohol intact
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Quietly she seeks the day to pass
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With those stitches that you clean
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You hold your flag of your doleful plea
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Now there’s nothing left to recall
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A fruitless title bestowed
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Amongst someone you could never know
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In this plight of this dismay
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This thickness of your plague
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She’s a realm that’s lost her way
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The Path Of Least Persistence (Figure II)
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| Shannon Wright |
