Friday, September 21, 2018


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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