I am racing to the many places of my death
Flying across a continent of lockdowns,
Where decent people are lazy for everyone to see.
This is a continent where people pretend to care
By asking their neighbors to stay home, and
Watch them like police.
I am racing over a land where people mock
Who’s refusing to be ever dominated by death
In the form of fear, death in the form of cowardice.
I am walking where people rage from morning to dusk
As they protect “communities” like a priest prays
A convenient god to a convinced flock.
Do tell, how do they know so well
The balance of death across Time ?
Do say, who made them so certain the judge of free will ?
And when is the last time these free spirits
Did belong to anything larger than a job, a resumé,
Or a bank account ?
Your communities have ceased to exist
When people believed themselves to be rightful.
They dissolved when people enjoyed
Despising the despicable,
They did not die when one elected
The wrong man in the many places of death.
As true as billy goats urinate on their own heads
To make them smell more attractive to females,
Half the country considers uncertain courage
As inferior to uncertain science. In the end,
These equal truths pile up like garbage
In the many places of my death.
Crédit image : Dimpy Bhalotia, « Flying Boys », 2020