His carbine, cordite smoking, plays again.
TV, radio, internet and mouth
Carry his deeds and our laments. How wicked
This wind blows. How far must our blame travel
Before it rounds like vulture over cattle
Alone on a dusted plateau and lowing?
We do not change the man, nor do we change,
We ask our city fathers rearrange
Our laws. As if our laws like cattle die
When blamed. The man, outlaw, will disappear,
Adjudged, smoking, unchanged, alone and lowing,
Imprison’d, while we remaining are punished.
Weary prisoners we’ve become on this
Vast prison Earth. Her wind a wicked kiss
Whose love we suffer gazing at the sky
Its spiral languid, our defense a sigh.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s