Meat cutter by trade, husband and father by choice, writer at night.
Click-and-clacking, ants are we. In metered step. In perfect key. Snick-and-snacking, mindless flies. We scent the stench. We dine and die.
By Robert Moores8 years ago in Poets
In the Land of Light and Sun become we Liars, every one. Infants cry the Truth in Tongues; Infants cry, and Liars come. Infants cry, and Liars come.
