Fallout (6/28/04)

my eyes open to the softly falling tears bled from flesh-white skies, my gaze rises up above the guardians of the sun and my eyes plunge back through my throbbing skull. whisky fallout- only cockroaches of thought remain squirming through hallow walls. by grace of blood my feet hold me up, but what structure could bear this soul? what blood keeps it alive when spirits devastate the mould? the angel of life softly whispers in my soul, fettered to the downtrodden, the angel of death silently distances the whole, the murder of the first begotten.