Time carries your scent away,
in tiny rebellions,
in sheer mock.

Myopic fad,
She's meant to feel for a man the love they never had,
Encumbering the lit sky she gazes softly,
as if a pry or a feeble cry,
Forthwith,
She senses religion  butchered and dry,
A loveless man with a lifeless gaze,
Jeopardizes her feminine craze,
In atonement of her birth,
She forces out if her a clay,
Her whims one with the wilting hay,
In this life is she to taste,
An unprecedented warmth or a love so chaste?,
Or lend her power,
So futile man can praise himself every hour.

Don't worry
it's only with my blood
that I'm crying.

Sunset and my sight is reddened.

There's a canyon in the badlands and
It's Montana that takes hold of my hands
to lead me in deeper.

Only in America
thank the Lord
for small mercies.

The petals are plucked,
The seeds are dry,
the earth is ******,
and
I am a weapon with peace to find.

am I a grave?
Merely a passive shrug to life's incessant rave

God truly I am withered!
While I am to console others petals that fall

Is my happiness a smiling face?
It is the momentary death I taste?
When I scar my leaves
While my hopelessness I tease.

This skin is my torture
God is my eyeless watcher
Brutal
brutal
absolutely brutal