Each morning he walks 

to the river without a 

word from his blank face 

In the garden the 

dead whisper to the living 

"your time is coming" 

The Ferris wheel's shut

down and only the seagulls'

frantic cries remain 

The lynch without rope,

prosecute without a trial,

and lie with a smirk 

Wish em' well, tossing

coins onto their unseeing 

eyes splashed with sham tears 

Steal a line here,

borrow a word or two there,

and the story's yours 

The tide rolls out with

a self-made plague ship looking

for a safe harbor