Something about the melancholy,
“fuck you” comes out as a strangled cry,
call for help and a declaration of no war.
Armistice heavy at my side.
Wheat waving at the end of
gladiator life, walking into fields,
a road that leads to heart’s content.
Old age and ears close to the harsh
sound of mouths’ invective, I can pretend
to never hearing and it brings me peace.
Close eyes and blood disappears into
the memory of red drip falling on my
sword, lips mumble saying I will fight no more
Plowshares, I can farm out goodness
like a co-op, the million monkeys typing
out my last will and testament, beneficiaries
God is in the silence, the Devil
is in the details, a clean sweep with
a dirty broom, excrement excommunicated
And I find religion here.
Knocking on a battered door,
I can do little less than answer.