Blessed' be
The nailguns
That line the walls
Of the hot spot
Home Depots
Ready
Willing
Waiting
To hang up the stocking
Meant solely
For stuffing
Like we all are.
Oh' genesis
Oh' forefathers
Oh' saints
Of yesteryears whose
Sanitorium rituals
We base our lives in
Prove to be baseless
For our emotions
Are not met
By transparent or well-arranged
Grounds.
I, no one, see
The curbside pick up generation
Grasping at straws
For the existential tied to the national.
Get back, they say,
But come on in,
They say to others.
Discovering
Hope in the after-life
Has a 50 % chance of failure.
They opt for the present
Thus taking over
The role
Of Creator.
What could go wrong?
What could happen
When the rug becomes everything
And there is no way
To see the dust?