Sunday massacre,
unfolding before my eyes;
His hair brushed back,
combat boots on-
The night is over,
the day is dawned-
Will you not speak,
of what you did to me last night,
will you not kneel,
for what you have done-
Sunday massacre,
Row by row,
a sadistic fun-
Sunday massacre,
the devil will host his dinner,
feeding the aesthetic of the tall cloaked sinner.
YOU ARE READING
My Sweet Grave Digger
PoetryI use to have an anger so big, it could fill up any house. Poems from the garage attic.
