The politics of ruination

 The politics of ruination
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Nothing comes from nothing,
The old man walks his house at night,
Sees enemies in every shadow,
Jumps at every noise

Futile fingers on devices of ill-reason,
Constant cries, increasingly senseless,
A rising chorus of abyssal white noise,
The blue birds turn into needle-toothed bats

Angels sit on your shoulder,
Who bear all testimony, for good or ill,
They have heard from every witness,
And are impartial in their task

There is no mercy to be had,
When judged by your own recorders,
There is no one to save you when,
The noose is placed by your own hand

What else to do, but seal the windows,
Call up the dogs, and the hounds that howl,
To provide broken bones and burning homes,
Name it the politics of ruination