I awoke, dazed from the dizzying dance of death,
to find my love half-spent. Rage shook my frail frame, that it should be spent thus, like a cheap coin carelessly tossed to a restless child with no cherishing warmth to hold onto it till the end. The child in a hurry to attend an illusionist's gathering slipped it into a pocket with no bottom. Caroming off the curb, rolling aimlessly until it hit the gutter and sputtered lifelessly into the smelly abyss. This is where I awoke to find the executioner near the sentence, neatly inked, in hand. Even a wasteland has open space
for the green shoots of growing hope and the taproot of the human race But the wasteland's the old-timer's trope for our creation of modern despair we must hang ourselves on a new rope Today we slink from our mother's lair into a world of heaped detritus lost and alone in a place of no prayer Daily we drown in the oozing pus puddles of piss create quicksand that binds unlucky victims who can only cuss As children we play amongst the molding minds and rotten writings of our forebearers spurning wisdom for half-eaten rinds Darwin's dogmas masquerade as our teachers in a world where rulers are soon toppled and safety resides with the loners |
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