They knew the metrics
of the long rope,
Red noose trail from
faraway neck
to distant padded hump
of a tired shrub in hormoned-out savannah.
They heard his song
of hope in abasement;
Desolate music played
by base orchestra
strumming fear,
hugging hate.
This other they thought hate had died
never to rise again, after all,
his was a silent song
in a forgotten wilderness
echoed by a few dry leaves
that would rot with the next rainfall.
But winged on southern winds,
fired dry leaves
smoke their way into tweets
that drive wonder nuts
as reason is baptized fake and
sanity takes refuge in a psychiatric ward.
Midway the red trail,
The caravan turns one eighty degrees
away from crotch destiny
neck-ways,
gently tugging at the noose
as fresh air enters the lower house.
January 2019
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