This is another heated ember, pleading. A future perhaps, a present to some, the bleak shadow of what looms and directs, disillusions, and controls. This came during the Bush regime and stands, still looming and fortified by a new force of will.
Monolith
Do you feel me far away?
Do you want to know my name?
Can you understand the notion
of the man that fills this frame?
Do you know my pain far out there?
Can you please ask someone “why?”
When all we do
is work and bleed for you,
why must we die?
We can understand so little,
yet much there is to learn,
and, in the pain of life, we squander,
all we have it seems we burn.
A puzzle in a cycle,
a rhythm no one hears,
only falling over footfalls
that we’ve fallen on for years.
No joints to turn around again,
no way to understand,
no one left to comprehend
this length of breaking land.
We’ve won our free illusion
that our freedom can be had,
but freedom’s held by no one
and our system’s going mad.
Now we bite our nails.
Now we’re bleeding from the gum,
we beckon blindly all this pain
for some thing else to come.
But we’ve spent our bitter tears away
on things that matter not
and what we’ve won again, I say,
a fistful full of rot.
Nothing’s coming for us,
our heroes in the dust,
we’ve murdered all our allies now,
the gears of home are rust.
The great machine in shiny paint
is falling to the ground
and all the things she built are faint,
so nothing can be found.
The ink and blood that made her run
have all but run their course,
now she barrels through the world
like clockwork, no remorse.
Decaying teeth
Decaying breath
Decaying life she took and left
Decaying leg
Decaying feet
Decaying, rotting, throne and seat
Decaying words
Decaying life
Decaying freedom fraught with strife
If we are a land that God does bless,
then why are our children motherless?
If we are land that’s made to lead,
then why do we let our brothers bleed?
If we are a land on truth is bent,
then why are we left so ignorant?
If we are a land with an open heart,
then why do our doors of love not part?
We are the people no one saves,
the lessons no one knows.
A threshold of a thousand graves
where nothing ever grows.
We sit in silence and wish to speak
but words mean nothing here,
and the things they tell us, though are bleak,
the truth is not so clear,
the only one’s who could understand
are sleeping soundless in the sand
while we sit silent in the hand
of an ever falling length of land,
an ever burning pop-up book
some child now has surely took.