No time to stop now,
A melee attack stamped
upon a contract for foolish
souls, caught up in another
vacuum like rat trap.
Two thousand stand as ominous
jesters, proclaiming a future
action, for a justice in
democracy hung in traction.
Four more branches severed
to conceal a bleak future
culled, mulled over by
demonic principle makers,
foreign policy adjudicators.

A liberators promise.
His resolve buried heritage,
pride, distinction under a mound
of critical thinking. Dirt diggers
make room for another mass
grave. Heads of state object
peacefully, pockets swell,
stomachs burst, another
bottom line cover up.

Truth isn’t the duty of a
citizenry, too embattled with
poverty, to maintain the
conscience level necessary.
Their hearts remain heavy, but
inactively unaware. It’s pathetic
empathy, that has become the
road map for a war waged upon
our land, and liberty stands as
the freedoms others die for.

Hands caress hair triggers,
blood wets deaths thirst for
another convoy, another youth
stripped of individual identity,
“because being an individual
here, will get you killed.”
Eulogies will be given, and
absurd ideologies will
remain the basic tools of
tragedy.

The battle ground is washed
of its scars, by new thoughts,
and a rebel’s yell. Another
black inked letter head speaks
of an unknown death toll.
A mounting movement paints
a new story; infamy, ancestry,
history.
An armory’s thunder echoes
in the ears of youth, growing to
hate; another Vietnam sits in
wait.

Wishing away peace,
backwashing disgrace into
the golden goblet of the
democratic process.

How can the future be
protected, while its branches
are nourished by product,
pain, and anguish?
Foliage covers the view,
obscuring another waste land,
another bulge to be battled
for.
Nothing is free, but the
will to fight.

Finding peace is the punctured
strong hold of martial law.
Trigger happy curfew enforcers
draped from bridges, traversing
gaps cut by a war shrouded
in secrecy, offer me no more
lies.

We can handle our own greed,
our need to vanquish the
terrorism waged against our
vanity; in a land absent of
material witnesses, as
more are sent to funeral services.
One more Nixon,
one more Nam,
a lot more napalm.