The sinking sun is now undone,
                       the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
                       for midnight lies ahead.

Beyond the heap, the honchos sleep
                       with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
                       at least, that's what they've said.

Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
                       in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
                       while spinning silken thread.

But as it stands, in conquered lands
                       a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
                       on stones they call a bed.

With aching eyes they fantasize
                       and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
                       now dining with the dead.

Five of Cups.
I keep clinging
to the spilled wine,
wishing it would return
to the glass—
but it never will.

And now I wonder:
which one of them
is the spilled wine?
Which one
can’t I let go?

Still sitting here after all these years
Thinking of nothing much at all
Nothing much runs through my mind
If I were to make that call

With nothing much to do
And even less to see
Nothing much is all I have
If you were to question me

Nothing much I must say
Ever gets in the way
Of the feelings in which I’m dealing
On a daily base

If there’s ever a need to try and keep
All of this in play
I’d have to lean on nothing much, you see
Then mosey on along my way