sick with joy while the streets fill with blood
doesn’t take
that long to
find a man
willing
to set the
sleeping child on fire
doesn’t feel
like a day where
i’d decide to
kill myself
blue sky and
the shadows of clouds
crawling like
cautious
cancer across the hills
news of the
war or its aftermath
and then the
whispered rumors of a new enemy
a better drug
the machines
of business
fueled by the
corpses of patriotism
and so i tell
me son i love him
i close my
eyes against the
approaching
winter
i trust no one
who
claims to have
never been lost
--John Sweet
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