I wake up and remember the world still burns.
Deep in its core, the molten pit boils
as we spiral further into the void.
I ask Where are the workers to demolish the dam–
to set the water free and quench the earth’s painful thirst?–
News reports float along pristine blue waves
interrupted by snippets of sacchrine song and feigned concern.
It’s tough to de-tangle the rope they give us to hang ourselves,
but I still try.
It’s a welcome challenge.
I peer at my empty glass shining in the late-afternoon sun.
Rainbow prisms bounce through its cylindrical shape,
and bury themselves beneath dry soil.
I say a quick prayer and mourn the loss
because I know they won’t return;
not even in spirit.
I imagine parched, fuming mouths spitting combustible matter on unmarked graves,
and illuminating the night with tongues of keresene-drenched torches.
What will become of the sun-bleached brush
that nods its head in sorrow whenever the wind blows?
Who will invoke Νέφθυς to bury us with bricks made from present ashes?
I’ll drink to that.