Aren't All Our Words Like Threadbare Cloth?
M
Mark Heathcote
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What can infringe upon this will to live?
Our desire to spill one last drop of blood
Nothing given is enough, so I strive
To give much more than, what's adjudged.
I ink my heart like a bleeding stone
Every tarred feather is plucked clean
Given pestle & mortar; ground to the bone
The dust I leave you I grant is serene.
But if it isn't and it's still stained red
Know that I've given all that I had.
And nothing was done willingly misled
Aren't all our words like tartan cloths plaid?
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