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Poem

Michael, the archangel,
was found dead on my lawn this morning -
stuffed inside a Gestapo boot. 
Crisp, black leather 
containing the remnants 
of abandoned halos and wasted youth,
boiled in a caldron of political mire.

A hierarchy of ghostly auras,
resembling pillars of spoiled sovereignty,
observed the vapid thrashing; 
lending no assistance -
just applause.

These obese vultures, 
donning the colors of democracy,
are strategically seated 
at our convoluted 
round table of insurgents;
freely feasting on scrumptious
foreign sanctions 
laden with an array 
of toothy seasonings.

These heavy-footed executioners
are quietly working 
in government funded pawn shops
disguised as altruistic patriots –
holding our cherished heartland 
in their right palm
and clandestine protection in their left.

On hearsay –
the destitute, our children,
our sons and the elderly,
are blindly vocalizing 
“Of Thee I Sing” truisms
and saving blood stained 
scraps of tattered angel wings 
as noteworthy souvenirs.

Gagging on their own
internal suffering;
the brokenhearted are now
pinning these superficial mementoes
upon their children's headstones -
because they - just like we
have been unconsciously controlled
to quietly conform
and solemnly 
accept.

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