Be still, baby brother
Little Jonah, still fighting...

Porcelain cold to the touch
In production, eyes, nose, mouth...

The rain begins to land
Like heaven's torture bombs...

350 degrees to tick
And "Dinner" sleeps softly in his pan...

For a child, who is bad,
There is punishment, accordingly...

Bum to tummy,
Legs meshed together, my arms around you...

I opened my eyes so carelessly.
Unprepared, unsuspecting of what I found...

Snoring, childishly breathing,
Laid out upon his grave is where they'd find you...

I wouldn't give him the last piece of pie.
Him, with his dark, dark hair, and skin placid...

It is raining.
I look down, and see my knees...

I
remember...

Hello, Child, I
Noticed your mottled blue skin...