map

afraid of what you know

of how little
any of these words really matter

and pollock
who pissed it all away
and my father
who called it religion

his shaking hands
and his bloodshot eyes
and all of the things we never
talked about

all of the miles
we drove in silence

and at some point
you knock on my door
and tell me you love me and
at some point you leave

and the last witch is hung and
the last indian slaughtered
and what remains is the future

what remains is the simple fact
that there will always be war

that the past will only matter
to those who built it

and i'm not ready to die
for anyone's beliefs