We are the futures of our own design
Creating bandages long over time
Biting and scratching and licking our lies
We're hoping and groping for no alibis
The blood of our pains is chilling our bones
Poetry died a millennia sold
We need no good reason to go on untold
Clocks are still tricking minds to confine
Stories buy pictures and wed them to dine
Tug on this pencil to let God transcend
Pausing to pickle the juice in our head
Snow is not wicked for water runs out
Shred up history without so much doubt