Leaves burn to cinders
To sate an addiction
Ashes to be flicked off a cylinder,
Then to fall to the ground and be blown away
By a whimsical wind.
Who would weep for the tobacco leaves?
They who are birthed in a flourish of green to flower and seed,
Torn off, desiccated, and packed in the pulp of trees,
Then consumed in the flames of avarice
Let them take the airs away.
Do not forget,
They are of the Nightshade!
The collies have grown complacent
Their shepherd has gone to fat
His crook lost ages ago...
They play with the sheep,
But lead them nowhere.
They bark and snarl and nip at the heels,
And never allow old wounds to heal
The sheep are left emaciated and weak,
As the wolves gather upwind
Crouching low on yonder hill.
They will bite the throat of the man that feeds
And leave tamed beasts to the wild.
Teenaged Johnny has his father's gun,
Through vicarious lenses electronic he sees the world,
With no idea what is outside his hometown,
He will end his life before it's begun.
The sun will rise,
But in winter the nights grow long
And frostbite stings the soul,
Leaving some to sink deeper down
Until they are buried alive.
Who will hold on when Atlas drops the world?