Touching Toes

With seven glass-eyed tramps and twenty beagles I hide,
A hieroglyphic stamp of silent war breathes genocide,

It’s fortunate I’m stuck inside a box breathing your fumes
Because if I wasn’t here I’d probably be stuck in a tomb.

The killer in the skies is just a broken memory
Look inside it’s eyes and all you’ll see is a mystery

Of how the witches drowned for doing nothing out of sync,
This clockwork universe is just a hair’s breadth from the brink.

Poetry.net

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