I can't march my ***** boots
To your hanging tree.
The ground opens up
Exploding all over me.
In the blackened soil
I find your decaying bones
Buried beneath the pieces of your hurt.

I can't tear my liquid eyes
From your screaming face.
It's the way I looked
When they walked in to say
That your hands are cold
And the breath dead upon your lips.
My life stopped  with this deadly agony.

I can't forget your laugh
How it wrapped around my soul.
The way our arms
Opened up our hearts
In the quiet, whispered hours
Talking of our dreams.
And all the places we had yet to see.

I can't rewind to before your hopeless state
Or the day you returned
With all your strength cut from your face.
You turned from me
Like I was diseased.
And told of my stupidity:
Loving you is a waste
Because you were the tainted enemy.

I can't forget the pain in your eyes
The world so lost.
All our dreams slowly died.
You walked across the lawn
As I melted down and cried.
Then hung yourself
In a tall tree where you could touch the sky.

I can't return to your hanging tree.
The ground out there
Is waiting to **** me.
But you said "Be great,
Be everything you dream. "
So here I am
Living dreams my heart knows are real.

“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.”
That's Arthur C. Clarke.
My wife always believed we are not;
She was convinced we are not alone.
11 months ago,
My sweet wife said to me,
“Wouldn’t a pair of tiny feet
Pattering around the house
Sound so sugary sweet?”
10 months ago,
The doctor told me how
My count was pretty low and
Asked my wife about a bike accident
From when she was 10.
My wife cried a little, and then
At home, she cried
More than I’d ever seen her.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said,
But I told her we’re never alone,
As long as we have God.
She told me, in one of the worlds out there,
We are complete.
The ‘S’ in universes keeps her hopeful,
And content.
8 months ago,
I sat in the waiting room
With my sweet wife who had
Been puking and aching for weeks.
The doctor called it a miracle
And said our lonely days were gone.
My wife said she was glad
We weren’t going to be alone,
With just her and me.
7 months ago,
My wife ate right, and exercised,
And sang to her belly, and
Did all of the things
She was told to do;
But it was not enough, because
1 month ago,
My wife — my sweet, lovely wife —
She tripped on the staircase-
That last creaky step I swore I’d fix-
And fell, and bled and bled.
The doctor said he was sorry,
That my wife, she’d be okay, but
That there was nothing to be done
About the young one.
My wife cried much more
Than she had cried 4 months before.
She said she didn’t want to be alone.
“But we are not alone,”
I held her and I said,
“We have God in our midst,
we are not alone.”
A week ago,
I put out a sign
That declared ‘Garage Sale’
(Unabashedly, as if mocking us)
And lay out a motley of miniature clothes and objects-
Unused cribs and
Tiny, unworn shoes.

One day ago,
I said all the right things,
And loved and supported her,
And held her through her tears, but
Right now, as I cry
More than I’ve ever cried before,
And ask why I couldn’t be enough,
She is packing up her trunk,
Saying she can’t take it, saying
*“I just want to be alone.”

Will we meet in shady groves;
Upon a hill? Perhaps in morning.
In hidden vines of deepest green… Does day break?
We spool in canopies as the world beyond awakes;
Cocoons of fragrant freshness. So here I sit and of you I wish.

Will we meet in times of woe;
Under streets beveiled? Perhaps in mourning.
The well-worn cobbles ache terribly, my dear, let us go inside
A yellow cigarette crushed against the glass; I burn for tenderness and see
It in your eye. So there you sway and beneath you I lay.

Will your face be one I know;
Past veils of spidersilk? Perhaps, my darling.
This well-worn world aches terribly, let us make our own
From shady grove to comforts home; an empire on the hill.
Lifetime passes in an eyeblink. So with you I hide
Til our tender world’s first sunrise.

Being "in the right," this nation of sick animal killing,
Insect spraying lunacy has now gone ahead
And called us all a bunch of Eco-terrorists,
Yes, that is right, we're all "conspiring evil," everyone.
Whatever.
Cute, we're the villains for stepping in between
Their atrocious evil-doing and all of it's "purity."
May you all burn in hell if nature ever made one.

If it is not a popular dream, they will dispose of it.
About the only thing this country has ever proven,
Is that on their best days they are about this:
A straight couple, with children, sitting in a
"Brady" home with their girls play with dolls,
Boys play with toy soldiers and football,
This is it, everyone!
The death of the Progressive Era, may we all become drones,
In the best known words of the Borg in Star Trek, Next Generation:

"RESISTANCE IS FUTILE..."

And we'll all be assimilated.