Whispers from the dirt

The Beat

A short glimpse beneath the armor.

Take my pain, oh child of mine.
My back can't carry no more.

I took it from my mother,
as she did from hers.
The torch, the pitchfork, the armor.

When one of us goes numb,
the other goes clear,
One's fall, the other ine's wake.

A new sun is rising,
at the end of the night,

hurdeling forward, falling brehind
falling behind.

The beat never stops,
unless the bottle runs dry.

Tags: handwritten, poetry