Not One Is Upright Axes And Owl Eyes
Aspiring
The chimney sweeps
Step after staggering step
Struggles the enfeebled son
Ascending the blackening spires of towers
Charcoal stains under his fingernails
Could be a claw for the flesh stretched upon it
Eyes gaze dead bent
On death bent sons
Brief as wind, the sons go every which way
With no place
We can finally breathe
