There’s nothing glorious about civil breakdown.
You know, that inability to have conversations from different perspectives, like we have to exist as a collective of black or white, left or alt right, not quite at war but always ready to fight.
So many cracks in the union, some deeper with mystery, more shallow and gruesome.
Oh, but it doesn’t matter one iota we’re acting out our respective personas, because misery has no minimum quotas.
Sharing is caring, ain’t it, Casanova?
Clothe a man for a day, he’ll keep all the change you left in the pockets.
Teach a man to sew his mouth shut, instead, yeah? His actions will have far more to say,
and words will prop him up.
If snowflakes could shrug, absorb subzero days, and cold streaks could stay their wrath….
but there I go, wishing for too much.