The Eldest of Sylvia's Daughters
Lies Still in the Earth Below,
On the Edge of a Small Town Graveyard,
Where They Never Even Mow.
Death is a rider on a pale horse, Honey.
Yah roll up your sleeve and yah lay down your money.
Death is a rider on a pale horse.
we reconcile the numbers,
or smelling of grease,
I enjoy the nuance of creatures
How horses resolve not to lie
The soul of the equine is blatant
when you look in the depth of its eye
Nestled in windows
Comatose on the couch
Exiled from countertops
The kitchen table