The dry world glides by us
And working to make it liquid sweet
On the tongue we find only blown-back dust
When the journey’s complete.
The sly world rides high.
For them, sacrificing to survive
Wouldn’t do. They pause – enough to verify
We’re barely still alive.
The trial world won’t sleuth
A murderer whose guilty plea
The system clears in stifling a truth
That now can’t set us free.
The phial world makes strange
Allies of ash, who haunt each street
Eyes outstretched. They make a plea for change
But not the sort we need.
Our sweltering channels dammed
With salt, we’re burned and blistery
And furiously becalmed
Embalmed in mystery.
.
Stephen A. Linstead
Picure Caspar David Friedrich