Post Life

Post Life


My crime is not
a juvenile crime, it
is a crime of
numbers oppressing us
with their
way wisdom and Sudden Solace; --
i have seen too much
to not acknowledge its strength
and Proper Wisdom --
Where do we start, here
in this Ministering Silence, here
where we can Abate
with Solemn Justice -- our
Eyes glued heavenward
in their Ascent, the
exact Measure
inches and miles
here Glowing, now Worth
our Structured glances
at glowing Embers
in the Ashcan; -- why
then would we stop
to greet You, old
friend -- you who would
dance on fire
as it intends the
Macerated Union
of Electroshock and Wan
perusal
Our home is one
of a bursting
Silence; a kind of Vain
retribution of
twirling colors, tri-partite,
on the Flag
our blood the blood
of Soldiers mute and dying
Where do we go from here
now that all of the children
are growing up -- and
how do we spend our Time when
nobody
gives us a damn -- hot collars
and staid sentences
groveling in the Mist
beckon to Us
as from a Distance
unheard above before
now when the iron Clock
sends its fury of
calm solicitude --