Tennis Court of Tears

We lived the spectrum, you and I.

An oligarchy of ire,
ideologies set fire,
and section by section,
no small divisions
were mired in
pandemics of
indecision and metric desire.

Gamesmanship
of good intentions
pave the off-ramp to hell,
yellow brick roads hiding
death’s odour beneath
where construction crews fell and weren’t
recovered;

cementing our
distrust,
we attacked each other.

For whom bells really toll, I wonder.

The calm has ended,
the storm is here;
safety nets are
tattered linens.

Precaution’s too queer, so
fear is designated driver,
and we
all become
survivors of exhausted
bombardiers,
our
tennis courts of tears
no longer
governed for the
sake of perseverance.

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