We argue a lot, go back and forth, me and Kathleen.
We have different dreams from the pain we’ve seen.
Open hand or closed fist, whom is savior or prophet.
Whom is to draw blood or give grace as they saw fit.
We also share dreams, of finding grace as life burns.
Of waking a death cult nation that never, ever learns.
Of something more than the distractions on our screens.
Addicted to the noise, to madness begun in our tender teens.
And at night, we pass a bottle of red wine, watching the sky.
She says when the stars fall that will be the judgment so nigh.
I say it’s just more demons coming, giving power to soulless men.
We both know, down in our souls, that lowly people never win.