You, a Brit, a friend,

picked up an American 

gun, and were then gone

As the train rattles 

down the twisted track the blind

conductor muses  

Raise your hands towards the 

light or wait to be razed by 

the dwellers of night 

The firebird slips through

your blistered hands but still you

run in wild pursuit 

The detonation 

of our inalienable rights 

is the real fireworks 

You spirit wrestlers 

who grapple with God will tap out, 

bruised but no wiser  

Dead gods once wept for 

lost worshipers dwindled down 

to a few sad souls