Cartography Poem by Jamie Dewyer

this gift to map ages with whispers from sages that breathe in my skeloton
stings like a curse

her hands are made Porcelain
ruin as dream began
i have no gifts to give
pa rum pa pum pum

the piper, his tune so sweet
sad in that soft defeat
american must mean sleep
lulling the somber sheep

'Remember to vote'
she used blood on the fridge note as if to say she was serious
or maybe she was joking
seven years later
...tommorow...tommorow