Poetry is dead in a world with no head,
A world with one body that plucks at its bread,
A hunger or thirst, no intellect to quench,
Terrorizing the world while we sit from the bench,
Is there a light at the end of the tunnel,
Or are we foolishly tracing the fence,
All along a prairie of ignorance,
With all the more to keep our thoughts dense.
Hence, they have arrived,
At last to convey,
What message do you have to deliver today?
I peer out my window only to find,
A mob of white horses holding up signs,
In a world of apocalyptic political conjecture,
The distinction between propaganda and lectures,
Becomes that much harder to unwind,
But really who is at at fault for this crime,
This hidden agenda of fascist swine,
As though unhidden, the past its prime,
A catalyst to destruction, at last, divine,
And so we are left, where Nietzche wept,
Only looking half as fine, as we remain desperately,
Knocking on wood for good fortune in this glass design.