Daisies and Knives
Joe is an old, withered tiger.
Stripes of balsa wood and matches, walking in a burning ring of hellfire
His shameless tamers snapping whips.
From deep blue state shadows
to keep the latest ruse afloat.
Feeding him grade school scripts.
Paraded in front of media buzzards.
Most cultures would call it senior abuse.
Now and again, he stretches the chain.
Gives us a glimpse inside his sinkhole brain.
A rusted-through windchime without wind.
In the maelstrom of a radical-rancid-rain.
Joe the withered tiger in the gloaming of life.
Thinks he's still sniffing daisies.
That have long ago turned into knives...
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