Killing the Messenger
On sending in the clowns
Evening sprays its dull stars across
The mind of an endless blue distress.
The tongue holds itself, lest it bleed.
No words can cobble together
A storm that whisks away the dark.
Seeming, appearing, ditherers—
The ache of sorrow in the hushed blush.
We will enter the fray but hold our ire
In the bosom of doubt and fury.
Where are you? now that you blundered
So badly, allowing your feet to fumble
Your brain to slip, your heart to scrap
All pretense at affection.
Bent arguments keep on leaking—devoid
Of facts—on the whole of humanity.
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