Of Thee I Sang
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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