“These are the burnt out ends of smokey days,”
we are lillac-blind, cruel-blinded by our
give-up, press-reset, fifteen-minute ways,
this life through un-acquired tastes, seems sour,
These are the stubbed-out butts of dreams, of love,
each night we kiss our kids with whisky-breath
with our stale words and lies, it’s not enough….
our bitter gift…a legacy of death,
These are, the cancer-ridden days of tears;
of drugs and dust and drought and forest fires,
in blind, cold pity we make real our fears,
look away with me as we light the pyres,
These are the fag-end days, the tipping point,
we’re done, put out the light, lock up the joint.