Sunday, December 1, 2013

Swept


Throwing all these sticks and stones
Lining all my paths with bones
In my heart I’ve killed at least a thousand 
souls
For getting in the way of isolation

Sweeping up my memories
I run across some stinging bees
But under the rug they go
I can hear them ebb and flow

The tide just keeps flowing in
This might be the bitter end
The tale is ‘bout to stretch and bend
Beyond my house of blood and skin

Still you’re the one that’s left alive
The queen of my humming hive
But where there once was honey
Lies nothing but dark and cold


-Allen Masterson

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