Borrow me a dream,
ungodly like the beating sun,
my memories of the mourning morn,
sold to me by a government old.

A day I captured text perfect
on bleach’ed pulp, a seed of
thought, amongst the buried dead bodies
by the river.

Borrow, for I must return
it to the country I remembered,
an image burned, into the
conscious and unconscious of
a legacy we ought behold.
The sun, today, it is cold.

Mom, Dad - what have I done,
your ill-begotten son
Asunder and on the run,
from the plague and tyranny
rebegun
I’m living for the sinking
of the erstwhile setting sun.