The Scythe

I’m biking home on the crumbling white line
Jolting over asphalt, crickets keeping time.
Like earth sends crazy rhythms in a faulty Morse code
An SOS, life in distress on shoulderless roads.

Look for simple answers on the black and white TV
Blaring news of godless children we could put to sleep
There’s a fire raging inside of the wire satellites
America the beautiful is Jonesin’ for a fight.

Cash crop of instant anger in a once fallow field
Frustration feeding frenzy for the power we could wield.
We don’t need to pay more taxes just this strange and deadly tithe
We’re harvesting in Babylon, we’re sharpening the scythe.

This is too much like the movies—like a roller coaster thrill
But I wake up with this nightmare in each morning’s ugly chill.
I am lucky unlike innocents trapped frightened in their homes.
If we mark our house with blood will death leave us alone?

I am riding home on the crumbling white line
My watch is ticking furious but has no end in mind.
I search into the sky for something good or something bright
Milky river stars obscured by vengeful city lights.

Copyright Tracy S. Feldman, All rights reserved