There has to be a death when two men swear murder.
There has to be a reckoning on sons not meant
to be alive, a reckoning on hateful lives,
lived by hateful hearts holding hateful thoughts,
on a black soul who bathes in the light of sunbeams
he names Grace.
There is his face staring the devil in me,
Willing me a hateful, too, and hateful do I
become; how caring absence plays out with lack
on sons not meant to thrive. On Satan with a beating heart
he walks as son, he talks in tongues, he’s not my son.
Listen to how angry, only evil can, will
talk so Base.
There has to be a death.
It will happen quick with sweet release,
Or happen slow and with it take
all peace of mind and steel of thought
that I once wished what I have got
after all the dribbling rants
forgets of names and shits of pant
what hold and why does it still grab
until the stab and great
Naught to see, maybe naught to feel,
maybe walk away
feeling no different,
shoes still stomping,
the Devil in them.
Well done. Two deaths.
One by dirt and one by demon
nothing to fuck you
you do and now
there has to be a death.