Armed with masks and a cable for the red of city prada,
Spark a blast in the stable like you read of Willy Wonka,
Sharks are catch to Azazel with the dead in Minnetonka,
Arch the ash from an angel on the bed of Titicaca,
Honor ends in the grave if the past isn’t as tainted,
Block the lens from the blaze when the brass isn’t emblazoned,
Grasp the glitch’s last editions catching critics that had said so,
Dads in ditches past the bridge’s ashen hinges when we let go,
Throwing quarters to their jars, showing horrors from afar, and the ashes are as frequent,
Growing orchards from the scars, knowing borders are the stars in the absence of a reason,
Better set the tides and clocks like this poem if you said it right,
Resurrect a life of loss as you go into the dead of night.
( - BIG SAL )
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