Whitewash

When will we ever wield this
wondrous power,
stemming dormant in the innermost
shelf of our self?

In which new, unused burrow, shall we
wrestle with other weasels to win
always and forever, those greasy, sweaty small victories of whiny wit?

Wild and wicked, we wring each other’s necks in thought, deed and in
difference,
to the point the blood rushes away

(Where does it go? The fading photos fail to show)

From our white knuckles,
livid faces, glazed over glares,
attitudes beyond the pale.

White Walkers roaming free over
the whitewashed face of the Earth.

image credit