the rifleman that played in minors (1/27/2017)

a hoary night, a winters' step
sleep comes weary at your door
but fenced back by coffee on your breath

picked clean, the bones of ivory, faux
days stepped upon that sacred ward
tweed rope reminders hung, row on row

pistols gripped and emptied, here
waterfalls of brass and shame
cowardice is to shed no tears

through ground and churned the manic hour
approaches in the thinning breadth
of seconds ive lived over again
to dodge the maker i've never met

it's so much colder inside

◄ ache 2 (1/22/2017)

crusade 2 (1/27/2017) ►

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