The Mole

I have been a spy
In the enemy camp
Since escaping
The common schools
And slipping
Into the tunnels
Beneath their
Quivering battle lines

A barbaric poetic
Analytical romantic
Hell driven on salvation
Sprouting from heaps
Of untold dead
And monument
Turned ruin

A dispenser
Of agriculture culture
Beneath the eyes
Of witch hunt
Stupidity
Casting countless seeds
For every injustice

A disquieting grin
In comfort’s cold absence
Suggesting
It is never enough
And all there is
But I for one
Cannot count
The neon scoreboard
On which
Nobody wins