And so the Eighth of November
Has come dusting off our shoulders
High-chested, heart's crossed:
America's judgement day.
And it came, like a sudden halt of a
Cliff hanger
Or a pause to an unfinished sentence,
The irony of the aftertaste -
His old man broken-hearted
Slumped anxiously in his chair
As the screen bluntly illuminates
Our long awaited nightmare.
My heart wrenched at the sight
Of his shattered face
As though hope itself became
A hopeless, endless chase.
Our path is at its foggiest
Almost unseen with naked eyes
And we had drained all our energy
To try and make things right.
But as the former says:
No matter what happens,
"The sun will rise again in the morning."