Hopeless in America


It must be terrible to be of no hope!

They say the radical fruit
Grows from the deepest roots
Sour as a yellow-lemon to the beholder
Yet sweet inside, like a ripe melon
Which grew inside breasts

And it is said with time, the radical stance
Will find itself shrinking exponentially
Until dwindled to a pus or yeast cell
That has no fraternity or feel-goodness
Lonely as a star awaiting a supernova

And when a gun finds its way
To a heart alienated and frozen inside to the out
Icicles will flow from command-central to the trigger finger
And the gun will quake seemingly
Like a self-destructing star and there will be
A cataclysm of hope until his own body
Will shatter to pieces

And in that final evanescence
He will be insensate – knowing the radical fruit will now
Burst her seeds on news channels
Germinating a new seedling
On hopeless soil….


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