collection plates passing on hands grabbing for man's wallet he hates
him for having to date a passing green grate worth feeding his young
and planning for late.

so it has come tonight that big brother was right to enslave daylight
that corporate hate might give passage, a right of way, to come home
someday and slay big brother at supreme first sight.
then mom and dad and all the rest, howdies and sobs, cakes to hobnob
and catch up with the best, of all the kin who hadn't let in worst upon best.

empty now, like my soul on a stormy picture perfect moment in time, standing
on a ledge anchored in just by a stone hinge lion. never to return until somebody
finds a reason to love what was lost and trust what was not in the first last place
i tried to see and spread the word if not for us then who are we, dare to disturb?

he likes it this way. passing the plate like it's going out of style, mile after mile,
of genetics and tainted root not worth the burn pile. the empty house again, and again,
we pass it so often. never knowing who was within; stone must never soften.