dear cømrades,
it is but days away.
my chest tightens. grip. stretch. pull.
a way i can’t deny.
the way of 100 mules.
all around me the woods are burning.
burning. burning. to the ground.
i search for resistance to its heat.
but not a fiber can be found.
reality sets in in the unkindest of ways.
is this what american culture is?
this constant change.
the constant miss.
i am but a drop in this miserable sea.
this unbearable red body of water.
a mere drop.
but seen as some abominable monster.
unclean. obscene. chlorine.
i am the heel of their jokes.
not good enough for the butt.
but good enough for the strokes.
to their egos it gives.
more flames to the fire.
more hate in their desire.
more guns for their hire.
i try and take heart.
though the flames singe my hairs.
i try and take heart.
though the flames hold my fears.
i try and take heart.
but my skin starts to fry.
i try and take heart.
but is this goodbye?
løve,
cømrade haley
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