see what’s become of your well wishes now

the widows stir pots of bile for neighborhood children without birthdays

wearing names that no one will call for when the streetlights flicker

the bartender makes a paper mache fortress from unpaid tabs

defenses to keep out the withdrawals that come aching back

and policemen skip stones off the graves of navy sailors

watching as they ricochet into the chests of unwilling martyrs

an orange moon beats bloody against the bitter night

daring you to appreciate the beauty in a dying world

but the clouds are made of smoke leftover from the last occupation

and the stars the gods wove for us have long faded away

factories pump out manufactured dreams of wealth to the masses

as citizens unite to flush out those who dare to defy the regime

the air has been stolen by a higher power that promises beautiful death after life

erecting statues of gold to inspire hope in those whose pain they've created

and young professionals sit in empty high rises with rolled-up dollar bills

watching as widows stir pots of bile for children without birthdays