The Ruthless Country

 

The ruthless country,

where nothing seems to grow

but disillusionment and

a lingering mélange of tragedies,

where good ideas find no

fertile soil, and bad ideas

blight the dirt.

 

A pitch-dark patch

of corrupted mud,

mixed with treasonous bones

and phony martyrs blood,

topsoil for lies,

and mulched with grease.

 

Nothing grows in the ruthless country,

barren wastes, pot marked with

foxholes and rusting barbed wire,

lonely winds swirl, stirring the

shadowy soil into clouds of

conspiracy.

 

The rot of the ruthless country.

A moldy odor, fogging the senses,

blinding the eyes with the stench,

burning the nostrils, and clogging

the ears, wretched and wafting

decomposition.

 

The ruthless country,

has no patriots,

no memorials to false prophets,

no valued treasures of a lauded

history,

only dirt and dust,

muddied, sullied,

and ungiving.   

 

The Ruthless Country,

begging for the soil to be turned,

the muck re-mired;

but redemption cannot be

grown there,

it’s ruthless.