the sun shot through like thorough thread

when the strips of stippled tippy tips
unfold their eyes and part their lips
there’s a blanket statement in the rips
that gets barely read

the sun shot
through like thorough thread
and we’re dead, boys,
yes, we’re dead

when the rips of rippled steppy stops
uncoiled to clouds let down their drops
there’s a supposition in the grey rooftops
that on sunny days are red

and the sun shot
through like thorough thread
and we’re dead, boys,
yes, we’re dead

when the rooftops ragged runny rips
unblock cloud rivers poured as drips
there’s a stilled petition on frozen lips
that’s mixed with all we’ve bled

and the sun shot
through like thorough thread
and we’re dead, boys,
yes, we’re dead

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