Saturday, September 11, 2010




Walk softly

They carry big sticks


Grow under them

Grow from them


You are not you to them

You are a number, another dollar


Waiting to be cashed in

Deposited into their pocket

The same pocket which late night pocket pool addresses their familiar booth of love


Reaping on our pitfalls, our demise

Bury us in their old shoe box


Forever under their feet

Cleaning their dirt with our bitten tongues


Walk softly

They carry big sticks

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