Whenever This May Be
Byron Hoot
I sleep in a little longer
in hope that something
has occurred in the night —
what a fool!
The commonsense of politicians
translates into fear among
constituents and panic
is the new golden rule.
I wonder how much
hoarded is now beyond
use? The clutching heart
is as useless as a broken tool.
This may be the time propaganda
is truth, any history a dead
art, those in control
waiting on the death of the soul,
all art, all song, all story,
all poetry for a meaningless order —
this we must survive
and with a razor edge sing the blues
until a new dawn arrives.