Indirect

You say that I only can see the bad parts. You can tell by the rhyme that I wrote. If food you call good, was all that it should, why'd it have to be shoved down my throat? Suppose I should tote a dead scroll or an apochraphyctic lamb skin. Apocalyptic man skins, get walked on like crudely made danskins, and ever presence ever yields to ancient peasantry in fields. Will we ever get a shield from that son? Will standing laws, or laws of nature, sanitize a mind set to statutory rape her, when she comes to my Mom's house in shorts? Sanctified codifications, waxed melodic like the Haitians, remove the curses I hurl watching sports. But what of the blade, be it metal or not, that slices skin, and pierces the chest? Slice an apple open, and shove a hard candy in it. The harvest is over, and new winter soldiers shall propagate indirect witness.