The Last Days in Trumpfland

A sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdione

Sometimes I think that if they win my words,
Maybe the only thing that’s left of me.
In days, it's time to pass these fascist turds.
We must be rid of this fetid debris.

Breathing thru the skin, I can hardly see.
If cut in half, we would both live anew.
Eating soil and all that’s in front of me,
We live in this soil. It’s our country too.

We can not let a bird cut us in two.
We will not be run over by a tire.
We still might not make it across the queue.
Our home is flooded. This place is drier.

We need to crawl across the dry, dead, land,
To fertile soil that all us worms demand.