Discard the ones who’ve fallen for they mean no spare of part
They are worthless in the leverage of our own domestic carts
– That we push around the streets to linger sweet like room dinettes
That aren’t meant to be used in fashion’s fear of late regret.
Sip wine with bloated, oily swine,
Hold meals with kinds that kill at our time…
To save this place; to chase after our race
To be apart of, but then -
Our instincts raise hand
Against the heels of brethren,
And the hearts of own kin.
>
Our own reflections we now smear
When we cannot see quite clear
In vain and clothesline pasts,
Leaving futures, born to cast.
