We Could All Die Tomorrow

But we won’t.

Someone will. Across the world, crushed under the boot of the automatic war machine. Within our own borders. In our backyard. Men. Women. Children. Snakes, deer, wolves, foxes, innumerable insects under the serrated blades of deforestation for the sake of the hallucination machines. The head to the boot on the neck of the world.

Roots, salted. Rivers poisoned. Lakes drunk dry by the war machine. By DraftKings. By the king in yellow himself, his pants soiled, his mind gone to the new drapes, the demolished palace, the history he destroyed for his own amusement.

We could all die tomorrow, but we won’t. We will suffer another day, another drainage, another name on the neverending ledger. We will flinch from our betters and kick each other while we’re down. We will fear and loathe the king, as all downtrodden subjects should and have throughout our pitted history. We will curse his court and pray a plague befall them, though none seem to. Many find us. Some of our kin seek these plagues willingly. Claim God strengthens them through infection. Would that He strengthen us the same way, the same pain.

We could all die tomorrow, but we won’t.