The Passengers

I worry of the passengers
Of the dead messengers
A people hardened and hollowed
By death that swallows,
The fuselage is full of the bull
And the ram and the sham of
Good and nice and a selfless life,
It’s in the passengers the endless
Daggers of death and flames and
All that sins wages brings,
I am falling out of the sky,
I am acting wry and dead and
Like led, I am in the cabin of
Self and the pressure of plastic
Clothes and moral implants,
I am out the plane with no
Parachute, no paralysis to
Be reviewed,
Passengers ride on,
Live on,
Land in LA and go back
To another day but mercy calls
And mercy beckons,
Save me, the passenger
In need of a Savior

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