A ticking clock is melting in a brass melting pot.
A regime is falling, leaving the aristocrats
of before aching and fighting
not to be the peasants of tomorrow.
Mothers flip pancakes behind locked doors
and closed blinds, hearing nightmares
of the undead scathing malnourished nails
under a red moon; fear creeps into
the developments built yesterday.
Children watch zombie movies
behind picket fences, hiding under beds
when a knock comes at the door.
The monster underneath sits beside
as the mailman leaves the bills.
The paycheck is smaller,
and the envelopes are laughing
as Uncle Sam pierces his bloodshot eyes
in through the upstairs bedroom.
He needs his fix, and he wants you;
but his dealers are low on supply.
The pot is too hot, and the stew is evaporating;
it will soon be charred and stuck,
leaving other regimes to scrape off—at a cost.
The citizens are fuming, and clean air is limited
as the smog increases.
Throats are sore from tears,
and kids shooting hoops
don’t know why their neighbors
are slitting wrists
behind home security systems
and modern drapes.
The only thing left is the foundation of it all;
find speech and free will spilled out or gone.