A White Rose
11/12 2021
They always say that it'll reemerge
Someday stranger than before, a surge
Of evil energy bursting from the power of prayer,
And thoughts that despair makes aware.
Contemplation is a treasure map
Toward the man who laughs and gives a clap
To the hoard by his rotten door,
Maybe as a piece of consolation; or maybe the floor
Gives all the answer needed
Creaking along with the wind that pleaded.
They return home with a feeling of success,
Sipping a glass of 'Modern Life Decompress'.
Their livers scream but no one is listening,
They're too busy getting high on anti-histamine.
Looking out toward the street, I see
All the men and women aching to be free
As I sit sipping beer, and wait,
Wait for what? Nothing, only to circumvent
The hoard beating on my door, howling,
Singing that new world symphony, calling
Buddy Holly from his untouched grave.
Personally, I think it is a bit... unsafe?
What matters, apparently, supposedly,
Is a single white rose on my kitchen table.