Twenty-Six

i paid for your empty empire
i left you a note
the ground was a bed of feathers
right where you all vote
take all of your vitriolic bad mannered ideals
and leave them where i used to run
from my house to the fields
and don’t paper
don’t paper over this
this
and don’t ever
don’t ask me to exist
in the land that was free
you march to a loud beat and it’s out of time with me
there’s no tears where we’ve gone but there are some left on my sleeve
and don’t paper …