It hangs off
in the far away distance.
The flag.
We know that its there,
we know that it flies.
Mired
in combustible mixed desire
we hum.
Because the waving of that flag.
We hum.
We travel in cars,
in packs or alone,
the road a private matter.
We ride.
We ride.
It’s out there
or in here that all meaning lies about.
Meaning to be true.
Like the flag.
Blood and both stained
and unstained tears upon our hills and our valleys.
It matters on those hills, a place farther then your own front door.
Beyond what you can see.
Green, grey, tan and camo curtains
shield both sides of the window that brings the breeze.
So that the flag can fly
its meaning, bold.
Where in lies the protector, the guardian the defender of all faith?
Where in lies the end of deceit and tyranny and the un-truncated corruption of our power.
The flags power? The people power? A dreamers right to dream?
Where in lies the protection of souls long ignited by fire and spirits?
Where in lies the answer to questions old as the pyramids and bright as the sun?