Dig Them Up

Who is offended by an ocean wave but a craven fool who's religion it is to remove turbulence. There isn't a man alive, whom having caught the sent of such a sweet Hellenistic ambrosia, would not fix his lips so that he could drink till sickness. Go and tell the Ethiopian the sun means him well as drought chokes any hope of a bounty. Speak peace to the Netherlands over which thick rain clouds promise to make oarsmen of their children. The delicate hands of humanity swings from one prickly vine to the next with no sure respite. Under conditions so painfully serrated emerge an ornate annihilation ready to blind a new generation with articulate deceit. Men image rose petals to be a clever ruse of the thorn. Devastated populations of winced faces begin to fashion wreaths and charms. And this is not their own houses. Neither do they mean it for their temples or roads. The sighing masses wish to hang their decoration upon nothing, so they may fasten their eyes upon a stillness repellant to hurt. Only fetch a carpenter whose craft is augmented by magic strong enough to drive nails into a vacuum, then all who approach may see the tinsel festooned about it. Marcus Aurelius shall be exhumed for his many crimes. We will break his bones along with the curse still inside them. What is left will be repurposed for broth. One last gift to who perish from disease or will see state execution. Melt down the gold plated negation of Zeno to make coins for purchase. We will buy back our sorrow, refinance years of unpaid heartbreak, and borrow against our fear to secure the joy of nations and itinerates.