The First Before The First


A wolf no longer lone;

Blood traces my jaw line

Maybe I shouldn't

Hold my heart in my mouth


Don't ask me;

I'm just the cut, stretched, framed

Graffiti that ignorance can't paint over

Or, as you call it, poetry


Son of a dead beat deity;

Also, the crucifier

My hands are meant for holding

But only the hammer, the spike


Found salted in a cave;

If you keep salivating ink

I will keep lying, saying

No, this isn't heresy


Published at Survision Magazine