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Dalia |
The time-honored blockade is ritually de-wired.
The bullets don’t care, the suits don’t care,
the governments don’t care, the viruses don’t care
And they are it and we are it and this is it and that is that.
Not much unlike the Georgians,
they had not reached a talking point.
They threw clay jugs through glass ceilings
that protruded from the alleyway
Their senseless arts were like mad libels,
monkeying around while carrying a blowtorch.
They were not anesthetized,
Though there was something quite trodden
About the miniscule reason vanquished by their ancestors
They didn’t quite hammer out
that which was in store
but what they did know they could not see
for fierce winds blew down the alleyway
They jutted out face-first
Before lending themselves a spare moment to do as they pleased
It didn’t matter what they came for,
It was just the audience
for whom they paraded their nothings and their scorecards
And here we still are, suggesting that we might stop them.
And here we still are, donkeys pulling wheels.
Labels: Dalia
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