Distant coddled
alabaster runs wild
savoring the vortex of a
muscle mired maelstrom
Caligula's throne sits in the eye of the hurricane
we write letters to ourselves—self absolving sin
rhetorical ramparts squelch responsibility
free wind tickles the tips of branches, the trees stay still.
Broken bastion bereaved
bunkers are built for sandstorms
whether we weather the weather
or fall victim to the tsunami
there's a climate change in our self addressed letters—
they become less about love, more about death
after we see the treasure chest in the executioner's cache.
Devastation hollows the oppressed
a free agent becomes a Super Bowl champ
by defeating those who traded him
a letter sent home reads—I joined the winning team,
equality is inferior to superiority
those in glass houses throw stones
once they're invading stone houses.
Race to the top sink to the bottom
of a valley where black sheep roam and scapegoats graze
waiting to become predatory lions
gnawing on the structured bones of lost wildebeests.
Wild animals don't write themselves letters
their only signature is their presence
an aura of selfish instinct.