LAST CYCLE © 2008
In this disconcerting age, heads roll with the wind,
Pinned with arrows, with pain and despair.
Along the avenues stained with blood,
And the nation, a mere player, in the expanding theatre.
The gutters, now unmatched dwellings,
Where messengers run, lame, in a fatal plea.
They deliver messages on crutches, firm and brusque,
Sealed in envelopes, with biting grimaces.
Each face reflects the present time,
Some, children, with dangling dummies,
Others, older, with distant gazes,
Recalling the prophets in a vibrant echo.