More than anything I am so sorry
for you. Even dogs are put down to save
them from pain when they have become ugly.
No one wants to watch failure digs its grave.
The rats have all since fled – fed up and bored
with neighing Mary, Mother of Nothing.
Dead canaries. Old crows. The fucking Lord
delivers misery like a bee sting.
Horses step over me stamping as they pass.
No room at the vets sing the vain vultures
of success. Hope is stuck in the morass.
For a moth without wings light but tortures.
You are worrying at what I might do?
But you can’t kill a