Bats in the toolshed
dont give a f*
about sunsets
spoonfed and searching for a subject
cutting hymns into symmetry
What does it matter if our tattered limbs
dont fit right?
We're still elegant
in a scary way
All too familiar
I'm disgusted by it's
tiny frame
and how our dicey angst
gets in the way
a rat with wings
hanging upside down
in a handmade shed
on the outskirts of town
who knows where
and who knows when
evolution made a creature
so gruesome so grim