papers going far, long way to home
baby newborn blows a wind through a longhorn
flying over seas of salt and fields of corn
watch him grow, uncontrollable syllables: "never more"
fiend or a friend, sometimes a blend
he cries for circus animals' pain to end
grains of sand the heaviest weapon, not a pen
so I throw it at him, a whisper: "make this end"


when should we negotiate with the time gods?
they know enough to soothe wisdom to our scars
but I can't, I won't
I feel like this throne
is not for me, no


heaven can't bring no more chains of ice events
he's squinting through glued eyes for a glance
we can dispense with the unnecessary suspense
old enough to shout "don't monetize without a consent"
but I can assure that we have nothing to measure
halfway through the dirt from living under pressure
I slap him once, slap him twice as a reacting gesture
he's squealing "why did my life become your gold treasure?"


when are we supposed to negotiate with the time gods?