Cold Hate, Warm Blood 



Late last night at rest with my mate 

I'm visited by a victim of hate 

A spectoral group, yet they're one and the same 

They would never live 

Nor would they have a name 

A baby too young to walk or to talk 

Rocked to sleep with a big, heavy rock 

Becomes a tot with a baleful glare 

Sucked from life by a shortage of air 



A child beyond time without gender 

Metamorphing to surrender 

Each shape for one older and still 

No end to how each could be killed 



By chance in the polyverse i'm all of these 

Each to fall prey with unnerving ease 

To who knows which ambiguous marasmus 

It asked at once knowing 

And unknowing the answers 



To things far removed from my experience 

Or need to know and thus it thanked me 

For sparing it death's multiplicitous masques 

And life's thankless laborious tasks 



January, child born alas 

February, still still frail as glass 

March through a formative period you must 

April child, in god, distrusts 

May comes and goes and shortlived is the hope 

June is the halfway mark of your rope 

July child fears end of time 

August child in slow decline 

September, sense starts to fail 

October's child, the burden ails 

November's child malingers on 

December's child is dead and gone