Testo Death Pretty Things
They are filling the case
High windows inside me
Look down on your face.
Changing white fingers
For men in the sand
Burning bright spears
That you hold in your hand
Grey children you've spawned
They just won't understand
As the slow pulse of sobbing
Dries-from the sky
My grief in red circles
Surrounding an eye
Grey child stands looking
And passes on by.
