FORTY-EIGHT HOURS

The news starts

and the tears fall,

those beety little eyes

giving order

over lives of no care.

A great pain and anger

bombards the soul,

a feeling of powerlessness

weights down.

Words and hearts twisted

by that Tyrant of the West,

with that sick mind

and those pulled strings.

The world listens

to his agenda

of mass murder and destitution.

But what means can be taken

against a self appointed god?

The guitars are all silent,

the hipsters have vanished,

their signs laid down,

and singular voices

are too easily ignored.

The news reports

then comes sobs of frustration:

forty-eight hours or

the eve of the end.

03/17/03