37. (4-13-20, my house, while listening to Ágætis byrjun) 6/6/6 from the Somnus series, a series of poems about the Opioid epidemic-
In this world everything is so far yet connected
No one is alone, everyone has someone or something
Always an angel and demon perched upon the shoulder
Captured from heaven by nets of thorns stripped from a crown
Wings torn to be crushed into fine powder for the führers
Just a dab of the nose, and away the world goes
And the hope sticks in and the hope sticks out
Caught and lost by fool’s after the next bout of gout
To shoot senselessness into a rule-risen rout of the righteous
Burning high like a shattered icicles or a golden joyous toxic river
With the holy water and the sinful water rising
And the blood and vomit pooling together, unsanitary
And so the Damask rose will wilt and bloom how many more times?
Beneath the sun glaring on the sand, gleaming on the feathers of vultures
Feathers tarred with sticky flesh and the viscous souls of so many
Live’s wrought left and right and cut for a penny
Gold slit from a seed-pod as soaring hawk’s stalk
How many? How many? How many? How?
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