Corroded enamel and worn out knees.
the distance from waking to dying
As they walk they whisper to the Earth,
whispering the riddles of jackals.
"Here are my children, I have nothing more to give"
Constellations forming on their frames
There are whispers inside their cells,
begging to be set free.
Feed the old to the dirt.
Feed the dirt to the dogs.
The air is pregnant with the empty carapace of all thats
left.
The empty carapace of all thats left.
