The Fog Plant

They're not scared and they're not compromised.
They're just doing it.
And it might be OK but I'm no longer healthy;
this is their fathers' war. Welcome,
for it's 5am somewhere,
30 degrees someplace.
A bloody thrill.
They'll get up like they always do
and get ahead like they're supposed to,
never minding the cautions
the wind forgot to bring.
In the mirror perhaps they're perfect
but to me they're merely
fog for the trees
and I'm a man they can only say no to.
Saintly saints;
their heaven awaits
while they pass down heirloom bombs
like buried memories in long lost catacombs
of human treasure I struggle to defend.
If it's true you can't help what you can't see
then they've blurred the line
between the unseen and the make-believe.
I never used to mind so much
but when I did they became so
passionate;
I was led into believing them
for all the lies they left for me to unfold.
Kiss me love, I'm hopeless (again)
and this is not how I choose to behave:
sick and living in fear
of what our forefathers left for us to clean up
and attempt to rebuild without a clue.
There is no defense to their ironic missiles
and I am of shallow command.
All I have
is hope without ammunition
and rain but no clouds.
I remember how it used to be
and how it worked out
so that there was no such worry
when I was a younger man
but that was before
their confusion settled in
and wrapped me in their blankets of war.
They roll it out as fast as they can make it;
so quickly that no one seems to notice
until the worst takes hold.
Suddenly,
nostalgic minds cannot get by
on revenge alone.
By counteracting with silence they will win
and retalliation by verbose grandeur
will get me killed.
I refuse to succumb
to the elected terrorists we love.
There has to be a way,
coming at any time or place,
to unplug this backwards evolution
and clearly see the damage
our trusted leaders have led us through.