Here is the fugitive everyman
bordering on despair,
trying to fend off the unscrupulous;
seeking any bulwark against chaos.
Power lines down, sparking and dancing,
then still.
Lunching only on the grapes of wrath,
passing broken windows and left open doors.
Tipping lady luck the pole dancer
while sidestepping the evocative
being recorded by some talentless novelist.
Giant scissors cut meaningless ribbons
at the opening of this latest poisoned world
still susceptible to the fallout.
Courting utopia or oblivion,
either option hell in a handcart,
can anybody play?
Carrying this cross like to a lover’s grave;
where ever he goes, there he is.