I exist in a basic state of rage
Now, most days,
And I sleep the fitful,
Dreamless sleep of those
With many miles to go,
Miles and miles and
Miles to go before
We dig our heels in deep
In snow,
Or dirt,
Or desperation,
Against the future we
Are facing, not a storm,
A darkened wood,
Not a cage with bars and locks,
But, where all our promise stood,
A concrete wall, a monument,
A fifteen-story stone full-stop.

Just something for the
kids to climb until
The world runs out of time
And we lay drying in the sun.
The war is over,
But who won?

My rage, because it’s all that’s left.
My rage, because it won’t burn out.
It’s fueled like Wyatt’s fucking Torch
Misplaced within a better book.
It burns when no one’s left
To look.