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.