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January 8th

de Women

One more awful feeling
And the fog rotate
Pelted on the second stair

Blood falls from your vision
Of an overdraw
Don't pant and we'll go unseen

Chirping birds
Passed off an open glare
Hung on a firework

Bodies at once we were
Torched by the burning sand
Touched by a folded hand

Ripped off in your marteau
And matching walk
Echoed in a crowded square

Dragged into submission
Only salt remains
Stranded with a crooked sore

Hiding pain into a pair of car
Crash into merchant shores
What you ask me for
Then he tries docks at ten
Dropped with his failing chore

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