Set upon
by lackluster enemies.
Slow time.
Facing the “B” line.
How far we fall.
And, oh how high
we’re fallen.
Up and down.
A ridiculous equation.
Fighting battles
with rattle can armies.
No more will
to conjure up a warrior.
The hero slain
for more than just misfortune.
Death of an ego.
A tragic solution.
But so necessary.
Why do we even ask
the question?
Why do we even rise
to fight?
Is it because
there is some divine victory
before us?
Or do we just love
the taste of blood
on our lips?
Sit through
another corporate struggle session.
Beamed directly into my mind
as I sleep.
We once
stepped foot on new continents,
and drank of new springs
flowing from unknown mountains.
But now,
we’re the undercard.
A drunk bathroom brawl
started over cut cocaine,
and single-mom strippers.
What a rush.
This is not even an exercise.
This is one hundred years
of muscle memory,
sparked by cracked cheekbones
and a broken nose.
The only way we feel anything
these days
is when it’s getting drilled into us.
What a way
to stay alive
in a tough time slot.
-DJR
