Moon hour skin,
war torn blemishes read,
"I've been where I've been."
I can see the maggots
draggin' their bellies
through his worm pit beard.
Jaw like a dilapidated fence
swinging off it's hinge,
spinning a million fckin'
miles per hour past independence.
His curled fingers flirt
with deserted dust usherin'
the rest of it to his perch.
The shovel point drags
an immaculate sense of justice,
proving to everyone where the
boiling point of his intent is.