Prognosis (Poetry)

Now the land has lost its heroes —
all the brave young hearts have gone
and the desert claims the city
while the drought continues on

There is sand in every doorway
where the dry wind whistles through
and a skull waits on the corner —
nothing left to say or do

Echoes linger in the rafters
all is ruin and decay
like the postscript to disaster
every dog long-had his day

But the tragedy of culture
lies in evidence of greed
where profit’s single motive
disregards the voice of need

So they killed the goose once golden
with no reason or remorse
money-blind to certain outcome
as they crammed the bulging purse

And should history discover
any clues disguised as art
it will find a dearth of heroes
yellow bones — not one good heart