I struck a match; being so tired
Of the old faces of bureaucracy
Grinning, grinning as they drove
Past in a ’33 Ford
With rolled down windows
And not a grain of dignity,
Stepping out in white colored suits,
Rolling the poor who live in cardboard boxes
The color of coffins.
Hatred, hatred, and well, I was tired
No longer being able to keep it in,
I am not subtle,
I am as merciless as a glass case with a
Fist shoved through.
Shards of flame melt and sag a roof,
Bend and cringe a bureaucratic look,
Do not touch;
Eyes like tin, dead fish in a bowl.
Firemen poke at the carbon remains,
Flake up and flutter off in a draft
Down a city sewer;
Mix with ripped bags and gutturals
Of the dying.
Stuffed expressions in wastewater,
Flowing, flowing aimlessly to the sea,
Dyeing the air, particles in a cloud,
Bursts the silver lining.
Do not touch. This is immortality.
Copyright © 12/27/2018 lance sheridan®