Cold orphan, cold earth
I'm sorry, baby – god's dead
and now the sky rains red on a spider web
stretched like sutures across a broken windshield.
It seems Adam took a bite of the fermented apple
and, with a head spun of selfish whim,
he drove his four by four straight into god's car and
. . . maybe when you're older.
I'm sorry, baby,
I know it must be tough, standing on the cold earth, a cold orphan
'vengeance is mine', saith the lord
at least, he would, if his tongue wasn't dust.
I know you have questions
. . . maybe when you're older:
just a few years, when Adam's free to take another bite
you can ask him
did you make me a cold orphan on this cold earth?'
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