Drinking Red

I know not whose hands

rocks erupted from,
or whose feet dragged stars
and stripes through muddy streets.
I know not if the throat
that birthed yells of “Death!” was mine.
I know nothing save for hunger
and the mouths I need to feed.
I know nothing save for my pockets
ringing dully with defeat.
Perched on the edge,
it is hard to not drink
deeply from the red
that burns too hot to be my own,
and watch the world
slowly turn to ash. 

There are days when the people around me here terrify me with their drive and with their focus. I wonder if it is just the way of life in this country to set a goal, fix your eyes on it and just plod on come what may - and that is perhaps why this country is where it is today - or if there is something inherently lacking in me. I wonder if their days are somehow longer than mine, if they can simply force time to flow more slowly around them so they can get more done. I wonder if they ever have time to wonder.