While My Guitar Gently Weeps

For five hundred
years, they’ve said
the same thing:
these are the end
times, this is the
flood, the end of
things, apocalypse.

Funny how the
people talking
(including me)
never seem to
be the ones in
the street giving
food to the home
less. In fact, much
of this speech occurs
at meals, over grunts
of animal satisfaction.
You need to be well
fed to pontificate,
& I, like many others,
(hungry when full)
wonder what to do,
while my guitar
gently weeps, &
my life sleeps.