poor sod

This is not the time for the 
crossbows of grandiose speech, or
to offer a shirtless chest
to a future that demands no answers, 
deluded in our thinking that we are
at the cul-de-sac of history.

It is a time that warrants
the strength in you, 
sketched out on what's real inside.

Wake of the big wheel water,
each man in his own enclosure of unreachable
horizons.

Poor sod, the job of building heaven
is not meant for you.