with bulging eyes
and pink putty faces
they tell us what’s best
chests puffed
and talking tough
behind the safety
of armed men
they preach
the tough love
of self reliance
their pockets stuffed
with stolen gold
they stand at the edge
of their graves
none the wiser
despite the grey hairs
they stand there
clutching scepters
with every fiber
maybe a people
so near death
hires death itself
men who look like
airbrushed corpses
to lead them down
into the ground
they reach out to us
with pale, withered hands
tiny hands
soft as newborn skin
and the calloused fingers
roughened by pick and shovel
willingly grasp
--Brian Rilhmann
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