Daniel Fitzgerald


Daniel Fitzgerald

Freedom of the dying man is god.
Never been one for religion,
But always praying for you.

A fox, hiding in the forest.
Ink on your arm,
Blood on your lip.

Horns come up,
Here it goes again.
Worship at dawn.

Paint peeling,
The foundation cracks,
Our church returning to earth.

Bend you over in prayer,
A growl grows,
What a way to die.