Hush. Your wishes aren't true.
Dry tongue, you lie so fearlessly to the
stars so close to bursting, whispering prayers
over pennies. But you've drifted from
the primrose path to the road of war --
Hansel and Hitler start a coin collection in your footsteps,
Columbus mapping courses in your name.
There are millions to be made, and with your
synthetic naivety you craft it cloudless.
With all this shackled to your ankles, the only weight you bear
is blame.
You play on a pity-piano, pressing nerves,
a hundred different keys at your fingertips.
We bring you good will on a platter; lips pursed you
whistle the candle black and
plunge us all into darkness
while you cut the cake.
