Elusive answers

to existential questions

hang in the half-light 

I'm sick of writing 

these damn haikus and will shut

 it down (April Fools) 

From ashes we rise 

until turned to dust and hope

to irritate eyes 

The satirists have

been sacked and sci fi writers 

put out to pasture 

They cut your war braids 

and choked off your fierce cries but

you'll have the last laugh 

The drum's cadence has

slowed from fevered call to arms

to graveside murmur 

In sway to a dream

that's been dead for decades you

kill any future