In the dead of night,
In the cold light of day,
Our greatest fears and brightest truths collide
The institution that is ‘Murica
Which long ago stood proud and tall
Symbolic of all things possible
Now withers, undeterminable under the mighty cloaks
Of hubris, commerce, and war.
A land balkanized, in ways not even imagined
Just one generation ago.
All sides seek justice:
Many seek to maintain the justice and service
They feel they have rendered dutifully for generations.
Others seeking to avenge the injustice
Others have wrought upon it
Seeking retribution for, and escape from, these wrongs.
A man, long ago, who was hubris personified
Warned us that ‘men are not angels’.
Yet here we are, clamoring to elevate
Mortal wo/man to the highest order
S/He to whom we would swear oaths to follow
Each claiming to rebel against the immutable, unjust bureaucracy
But who now, dance before us like jesters to the throne.
They, all of them, would subjugate the populace
To benevolent assimilation, a colonization of our democracy
Given cheaply – even freely – to the snappiest soundbite
No rationalization or intention would forgive the imperialism
With which we would certainly be yoked
It could be an impotent crusade,
That which we Jedi warriors would wage
The hegemony of the Death Star, looming in gloom above us.
Only in our numbers could we strike a blow
For the democracy we hold dear.
Will you join me in song for this new ‘Murica?
Will you raise your hand, cast that choice?
Whether you speak for your ideals,
Or manifest your discontent.
No (?) choice is wrong, so long as we don’t forsake our right to make one.
We must live to fight another day.
Featured image, “Low key picture of a fist painted in colors of american flag” courtesy of vepar5.