Fed On Stone

Tap the cage with paper fingers left alone in dread • Call the mice and whisper lingers, fed on stone • And the present wheel grinds • Fed on stone, but fed • Fed on stone, but fed

Watch the box and crayon princes soft in bridal bed • Turn a glance away and since it’s all alone • How the present wheel grinds • Fed on stone, but fed • Fed on stone, but fed

Dead to the world • Dead to the world • Chalk to dust • Bone and rust • Rust and bone

Open door but empty ringing said another girl • Swallow hard on empty singing, dry the phone • And the present wheel grinds • Fed on stone, but fed • Fed on stone, but fed

Dead to the world • Dead to the world • Chalk to dust • Bone and rust • Rust and bone

Fed on stone, but fed • Fed on stone

© Zen Greenway

Picture Credit – RonPorter

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It’s obvious that when the apocalypse comes, I will be one of the weak people. I will have no spin kicks with which to defend myself. I will have only the magic of my words and my understanding to protect me. I will be meat for the beast. (Unless I can engage him in conversation.) And I am fine with that. If my death at monstrous hands becomes imminent, I hope I can meet it in a lounge chair, sipping on a gin martini.

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