Fourth Turning

I wonder How far we’ll go So desperate for heroes who are first Criminal enterprises Romanticized as rebels Lies wrapped in a maybe-he-could-make-it-all-better? From what? To what? We do not consider Perhaps for lungs A bowl of water A slice of sun shone through a winter window If I had fingers I’d perch atop an Oak Squawk to the mountainous clouds Construct a nest from its torn cotton If I had wings sharpened by a falcon I’d drink the egg-rims of Saturn Return to Earth A different person My milestones of shame truly forgiven But that is as impossible As utility pole lines heavy with crows of time My descendants already cupped from the sand Castles Moats Draw bridges Guards lined along the walls with weapons Drawn A priest edging the ear of the new King But not for purposes of truth He seeks his own hold on power Will deliver the masses Who will suffer oppression And poverty Hunger disease and war The remembrance of a once-was-my-house With laughable heat and light and glass and wood And brick mortared together in order As it always is Cities inside the walls will crumble Into utter shocking misery From our neglect Our blindness Our mute swan unfolded between our legs It never seemed possible But neither did the aftermath of a starved body Reduced to caves and scouring ants Ribs gathered by an archeologist Ladders Lowered Into our graves Of blame When greed That original hunger Was both the first and final hour.