The shapes keep shifting
You think you’ve found peace?
In your box, in your trench, in your preordained plot.
They call it a crisis
An expedited expiration
What about the end of everyone else?
What’s coming next? What do we want?
What do we crave? Who do we belong to?
Who owns this – who wins this – who claims this
Who brings something new into this rotten world with its sordid apathy
And its overtired tropes and its lists and its checks
And its spinning webs and its twisted paths
And its nebulous origin
It has nothing to do with the time
It has everything to do with this place
But the years passed and the dog’s gone
And it’s a long drive and I have to cross the bridge
And I don’t have money for tolls and I have to work in the morning
And I can just keep going on and on and on and on
And it wouldn’t make a difference anyway.
We stood in the wind while we buried a cop
And the bagpipes played and the gangsters drank nearby,
the future unraveled, the cars drove away, the day ended,
And I’m still waiting under the same sun.

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