Closure
Burns like hell
On the branded
Ass of cowards
Whose recompense
Is herding
These gains of pastures
Sold

By farmers
Peddling grass
Where cattle old
And weakened
Show sores
Across their bellies
Thick with flies
Which fester close

To remind them
Riches bleed
Running red
By show of nothing
But successes
Oozing trauma
Leaking hurt
Like open wounds

When what’s right
Is not a gift
But an entitled
Sense of fortune
Stealing futures
Without answers
Leaving lies
Behind as threats

As some legacy
Fallen ill
To which fate
It cannot bargain
After planting
Faulty reasons
Within seeds
Of empty souls

Across soil
Tainted well
Among debts
And arid ruins
No one person
Could establish
Is worth planting
Second hand.

– J. Pigno