Post-Neology

The price of waking up
isn’t just Pretti Good—
it’s too fucking great;
(like a Danish tyrant’s namesake).

Two souls.
One will.
Kindred hearts,
Shot to kill.

Makes you want to turn
the other cheek,
to the colder side
of a pillow prepped
for hibernation,
Seeking deliverance,
by hellfire’s revelation.

But carry it with us
we will,
Indebted by a weight
too heavy
for two arms to bear.
like pallbearers
at our own wake,
sleepwalking through
inherited,
subservient motion,
Slowin down,
on the uptake.

Our burdened lot,
To be born,
in the line
of once-in-a-lifetime,
Copycat crimes,
means,
when we reach out
for reprieve,
We’re the ones,
left to pay the fines.

From blazing shore
to rising seas,
the river of justice
runs dry,
Liquidity seized.

The blood of Christ
flows no more.
The heartless heartland.
Dancing to,
the Devil’s score.
They traded,
their holy baptismal water
wholly for unjust ICE—
hollow lambs hurting others,
herding about,
Their own,
soul’s slaughter.