Prayer Of Ruin Poem by Luke J. Holt

carpet
two-hundred times soiled
reach your walls
and with fibrous nerves you name each one
one for a thundercloud
never to rain
one for the outlanders
washing and baking
one for the Priests
who argue and age
and a floor for a knave
who has not a coin
who sits and stews and plots his joyous, harmless uprising
and configures a prayer of ruin:

If upon this hardened road
you place me here to stand
and order me to dig a hole
i only have my hands
and if i am a mockery
why am i last to know?
am i inborn in failure
as is permafrost to snow?
and if it may be wrongly so
that im a crafted clown
i would like my good news in writing
wont you heaven-send some down!