Mothers mourn
Our Fathers scorn
And of course
The kids
They hate you
A fly is born
A hymen torn
Glimpse the harsh moon
Phase you
Jaded, shooting
Callous stars
Jilted wishes
Haze you
The Age old scars
Of salt stain jars
Turn tricks
Throw stones
Parade you
March on...
© Carla, 2011
