It’s hard to put one’s hand
It’s even harder for my grandfather
we are back to the same loop
to pick between two nincompoops
a devil not from fantasy
or the hell in the deep blue sea.
I am tired of some pot-hole future,
the incessant darkness of where we’re going
the uncaged lies in the thumbs-up of advisers.
we’re served with two pots again
twisted tongues on straight lines
holy books wrapped in blood
that will be drawn from he who lives.
we aren’t quick to remember yesterday’s turmoil
yet are quick to forget yesterday’s pain.
if we are not tired
then I am tired
of these brooms
these fathers who keep sacrificing us.