Pylimitics

The world is ending in death and cactus. Walking to the local hofgarten in broad daylight I can see ghosts clinging to the other people on the sidewalks; third members of each couple. T to the seashore to see tides diminished by blood and hear a screaming soaring across the sky, no indignant cactus bird to be seen. Slouching past a church, then another, then another, I read the plasticized propaganda signs outside them, all the same message: “deliver us from phones.” 

On every streetcorner insectoid troops roust randomly; terminate tremblingly; destroy indelicately, and we are meant to learn from the unfairness. Is it enough to stir to action those who exist because they revolt? Deeply unfree, but believing the reverse, they await the visitation of truth. Yet truth has them already; it is simply not finished with them. The truth, the truth, like the spring, is cruel and makes you wish for the sheltering warmth of winter; the sheltering sky above the unreal city whose streets I plod. 

Borked by the gipper, twisted by tricky spymasters, given and sympathizing and controlling. Dead trees cannot shelter me, The dusty wind feeds my fear. Why should things be easy to understand?