The Needle Drops

Faith weighs less
than despair!

Depression drops the needle
and I prepare
to battle thunder storms.

Nastiness creeps and crawls,
fouling shoe leather.

Burnt crude stinks
Like cultured death.

Disease flourishes, where its foul flora
sticks to the bottom of stew pots,
sickening babies in tin-can camps.

A hurricane
races hope across the bay
hope lacks conviction.

Isn’t that always the way?

It rains shelter, stick rafters,
and iron sheets.

Streets are washed to muck
But no one’s leaving anyhow.

Evil is
the weight of expectation
that crushes an island nation
lost to blind demons.

Even the sun here
falls, disgraced

Heat dries corpses on the sand
where recently feral pigs
are the only things fat.

And hope evaporates
in the face of God

-Dave Kavanagh

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