Satan’s stirrups on his pants
Dragged across the frosty ground,
And Dad and me, crouched in the plants,
Were careful not to make a sound.
Satan looked like Burl Ives,
Strong, calm, and sincere.
His beard was made from cookie cloth;
His hair from newborn steer.
I looked at the crystal clouds and thought,
“This should be cherished while it lasts.
Soon Dad and me will start to rot,
Dust to rock, dirt to dust, rock to dirt, dirt to rust–
All things were meant to pass.”

2:12 pm  •  5 May 2012  •  24 notes