when our number's up
we go where souls find slumber
in a run-on run of none and not and nothing

where the sky is broad and high
and deep and humbling
where the tumbleweeds
come dumb and drunk and stumbling

and the pick-up trucks are rusted
done and dusted
in the dusty sun
that stuns dunes and drumlins

stone strewn with rubble
some forgotten struggle
where the temples have crumbled
and the gods have been humbled

wind grumbles and mumbles
like some drunken slumlord
at the gutter rats that huddle
in his muddled penumbra

and the threads that time is woven of
are tangled and jumbled
like vines in a jungle
and rhyme and reason teeter and tumble

and the stunning starry sky
falls down and stumbles
lays a stone on the tomb
of the lost and forgotten

when our blood is dust
no us and no other

no struggle
no trouble

just a lot of nothing