A Tract On Crisis

There is a civil war in this land
Self chained to self, man against man

What is so civil about war anyway
Turning oneself into the prey

The wounds of division cruelly set
When handshake is met by bayonet

Or a strike unsheathed through the lips
Man before man in human eclipse

These are the times that try men’s souls
Dear Mr. Paine,
This was written in the Dead Sea Scrolls

Just as the first blood released by Cain
None have been able to relinquish the pain

Turning to self in idolatrous fashion
Becoming in exile malnourished and ashen

Lying down dying a prisoner by choice
Gasping, we blame the Siren’s voice

All that killing we called revolution
Dust back to dust our restitution