Lost in the Desert

Friendship means nothing when crossing the desert without a caravan or water.

A one way street blowing the monarch butterflies backwards, while they still fly.

The end goal a quest for the sweet, sweet agave nectar in Mexico.

The superficial cry into their tequila while wiping runny noses with power lunch ties.

Choking off the air while providing a napkin to mop the drool from conquering the working class.

It's all fucked and so are we.

There is minimal chance for survival.

If only I were high when truth to power speak in the final five words of the national spelling bee.

Calling no one to the final mass under neon black light and fuzzy posters.