Thorn Farmer
Gridlink
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First ring i ever drew still hurts the last thing i ever drew
Telling myself just one more year until the last shovel of dirt
Spending forever doting on each circle of graphite
Each fresh ring a hoop that marks my not passing on
Safe places are vaccuums, filling with sadness, without spark
Plucked out of a patch of sun, i tried to refill you
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Wrapped in burlap
My first born dead
How many children do i have to bury before i am allowed to end
Why doesn't the ghost speak, instead stare accusing