This is a season of nothing but trouble.
A complete inability to communicate is in the air
and poisoning our lungs.
Nowhere is an open heart to be seen,
including my own.
All of us are at each other’s throats.
The whole country is poisoned.
A black art has us all in it’s thrall.
Emotion has become a brute raging thing
and intellect a mere tool of deception.
I’m not sure we can take much more of it.
Laugh if you wish - fall down pissing all over yourself,
pick up your beer and reach for the remote;
go and cast your vote for the cardboard cutout
of your choice.
Listen to the nightbirds fall silent
at the scream of the sirens,
go right ahead.
But I’m not sure we can take much more of it.
By Richard Sellers
