President of Death

come into this room, presidential candidate. come here with your flares. see into those corners. speak words, ones that create your town. you are a Viking, sadly preposterous, but we own you. you are not as festive as the burning jacket we saw on the ground, nor the car lifted into the air to be scrapped. you are where the cowering begins, and how the stark intensities need a stand off. when our courage fails, and death steals something, you will be a perfect example of something slightly small and lugubrious. your open door will be an impenetrable plane that no one will pierce or understand. and that’s the potion you drink. just a squared thing world, dialogue as crêpe to decorate something no one wants. death has been bundled up and placed elsewhere but remains the talk of the day. the day has never been yours, dreary as you are. you see nothing in the doorway to entice you, and no one wants your reminders. next time your guff insists, expect to be riddled. today, the flowers stand out, but only because they must. anyone can type up a firm response, no one needs to feel spurned. death has a handle on things and makes us miserable. your intense relationship with name brand keeps allowing more flies to enter. you cannot process the doorway but anything can. when you make music the dullness gathers a cramped momentum and we have a country. this country cannot embrace the dying, the warmth was never freed. why you remain is icy, frantic, dictated and drone. tomorrow is where love goes. today is death’s door. you stand there, stupid.