There is no more room for satellites
spinning sitcoms from the sky.
A lecture wrought in nervous talk,
of terrorist plot and government god;
we saw the flock abandon the steeple,
before settling for luxury,
and reverting back to sheeple.

We spend nights home from work
locking ourselves in.
These twisted thoughts and store-baked goods,
they platter my mind with salted ambition;
they terminate the desire at the source,
the river now runs dry,
it has come to run its course.

There are thirty-three reasons why I came here,
and innumerable thoughts in between.
I have fallen ill of the sunlight's tilt,
of breezy summers and breathless winters;
you were the ease of conversation,
you clothed my children,
you fed my nation.

There is no more room for pointing blame,
for counting figures of possession and points.
We have got to live, grow bitter or forgive,
work for our bread, dodging rains of lead;
avoiding heart-ache at every terminal breath,
you are the only exception,
you are all I have left.