We were promised the golden age of America by a bronze man with a lead stare

So is it any surprise that the only gold I've seen lately has been from bombs bursting in air over Tel Aviv or from the reflection of the sun setting on our empty ports.

Today is July 4th and we're supposed to wave the red, white, and blue
But how can I when the white people who voted red back the ice cold blue that freezes our economy and expands our divide
We're sending men in tan fatigues to tear apart brown families

I wore those tan fatigues once too
I had a sense of pride in knowing that Uncle Sam wanted me
But now all I see is Uncle Sam's white *** as he turns his back on me and those I served with
He doesn't want us
Us few who found solace under the rainbow
Don't you know there's no honor in a blue soldier turning pink
There's only honor in turning our enemies red
There's only greatness in turning our counties red
There's only masculinity in turning our hats red
So, if you're a young man feeling blue, just turn red
But not well read of course, this is America
We love the uneducated

Fall greets the earth as summer slips quietly away.
The seasons are changing, as the leaves shift in color from Emerald Green and Chartreuse
to Russet Browns, antiques of their once fine grandeur,
though still splendid in their beauty.
The color of the leaves, as if painted by hand, so individually crafted.
With swirls of Orange and Coquelicot, the leaves fall as if they are gracing the earth the way a painter graces their canvas.
The air grows cooler, giving way to new glory, breezy winds that whisper, carrying undertones of what is to come.
The lakes feel the chill, and the creatures understand that the changing winds will soon give way to a glacial paradise, an icy oasis.
The changing of the season from summer to fall is one I look forward to,
for there is something in the change that brings back fond memories.
Days filled with love, days spent in front of the fire, snugly wrapped, watching the flames twirl and dance.
Days filled with wonder, days in which my life seemed to move along to a soft and gentle melody that only I could hear.
Days when I held to life, and it met me with grace.
Still now, when I feel the fall winds gently embracing my skin,
I feel the same wonder, and that old melody carries me away again.

-Rhia Clay