God bless the bastards,
Whose souls tread where demons would say
Bless those beautiful bastions of burning bleeding hatred.
Those who put all else below them.
Dust to dust are we,
Born into wedlock of our humanity.
God bless the bastards.
If they can be saved,
Then I am a saint.
He tells me he isn’t ashamed of what he did, or where he’s been, or what he put my mother through, but I think he means that he doesn’t allow himself the luxury of forgetting
I’m writing about you again today, and I wonder, why dig up our sad corpse.
Poet’s Website: http://www.sierrademulder.com/
Poet’s Twitter: https://twitter.com/sierrademulder