I swore that it would never be
again,
the thoughts, the cares, the
lack-there-of,
all piled high in sleepy burdened blossoms,
nightshade
And thousands of bodies.
And when I awoke,
Strewn about in bags the parts
of all the mother's sons I'd died awaking...
And I clung to the windshield, clung to life.
But if this is the end,
I would make such an end,
as not like the tow, ember glowing,
but as a rage,
a furnace,
a city on a hill.
