To Hear Our Own Infant Cries Drowned

Love is a thorny feathered gown Battered and thrown to the ground Snagged it pulls against a bramble. Unable to permanently close its wound. The world's wounds bleed seeping In ever-decreeing, circles, looking for us to be Subservient and die. Love is a feathered gown But, oh how the mighty, vampirism, morally, cries. Hiding like a house of weevils, Just a step distance from the under-toe Squish-of-death: so why do we dispassionately, Let them rule and breed - us to death Just to hear our infant cries, suffer - suffering, drowning. In loves thorny feathered gown In loves thorny feathered crown