Say a prayer for me
Rip Van Wellington won’t play nice
and if that’s the case I’ll go home,
don’t think I won’t.
The dawn fell on his face and I said
fine, let’s burn each other down,
start fresh with a scorched earth
but he keeps holding fast to jokes
and lies that we’ll be okay
without spilling blood.
Maybe the dark has the answers,
it always has before,
answers hiding in the dusk
soaked through with anxieties
of an elephant in the room
not visible in the blackness.
At least tumbleweeds can be counted on
to raise our hackles and soak our
mediocre human souls in the lives lost
and meaningless plunder as a temporary
escape from our inevitably brutal end.