No Idea

Timid motherfucker.
Cold to the touch,
Missing something
Vital and important.
Broken whistle,
Too much tension
On the string. The impact
Failed to dissipate,
Et cetera.
It doesn't matter.
An idiot's as good
As what you have
On hand and at
The ready.
Just imagine these pictures:
Cold water,
Dead flowers drying,
Hanging upside down
In the closet
Building their potency,
And a few thousand dead
Sapient Sapiens
Scattered to the current
Landing here,
Landing there
Randomly inserted
Into brief moments
Of reflection.
Now pretend that there's
Some truth to be found here
Hidden under the mundane,
Unwashed and dirty
Stinking of working class
Morality and other adaptations
For survival
In an unfriendly environment.
Now pay lip service
To G(g)od(s),
(Just pick one)
And make it sound sincere.
Finally, relax in the dim sunlight
Absorbing what you can
While contemplating all the time
You've wasted,
The thoughts you've let
Vanish into the depths of the past.
Feel better?
Or does your cowardice
Still sting you?
Has your awareness
Of the events remained?
Perhaps it's time
To change tactics
And abandon the past
To regretful and sober.
The bastards deserve it
Anyway.