Oh, the corpses that float
In the shadow of
the New Colossus.
A gift that should
have been taken back
by the French
long ago.
The lies of her crown
of her torch
her tablet
upon which writ
was a cattle call
to the enslaved and persecuted
within our own walls.
Is it justice?
Is it fate?
Whence they tear from you
your robe
the tarping
they use for Army tents.
Before they nailed you
to the stake,
they made you dance
a little.
Wave your torch over your head
so they can see the light
bounce off your tired *******
and crest the slump
of your dimpled ***
Your crippled legs beg for a kneel.
Yet you dance on.
In vain.
You will still not be spared.
When they stripped you of your crown,
Did you know they were serious?
Plucking from it the thorns,
that became the spikes
that held you upon and to
the stake.
The rust from your green palms.
Blood red and weary.
Not a tear,
as they douse you in oil
and sneer through expensive veneers.
The cash at your feet
was not an offering,
but instead,
a wick.
Your hallowed bones
and hollow soul,
the offering.
That beacon,
that torch,
meets the fuse.
As a chorus of laughter rises
from the company of despots
at the backwoods ceremony this is-
as the light of your wilting steel
and melting carcass
flicks off of their contorted faces-
can you tell me;
Is this the rooster coming to roost?
Is this the reaping of the sowed?
Is this a lie laid to rest?
Or,
would you have rather drowned-
Like the tablet they stole from you
and threw in the ocean.
To rest in the shadow of a wall.
Oct 20, 2020
Oct 20, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
Oh, the corpses that float
In the shadow of
the New Colossus.
A gift that should
have been taken back
by the French
long ago.
The lies of her crown
of her torch
her tablet
upon which writ
was a cattle call
to the enslaved and persecuted
within our own walls.
Is it justice?
Is it fate?
Whence they tear from you
your robe
the tarping
they use for Army tents.
Before they nailed you
to the stake,
they made you dance
a little.
Wave your torch over your head
so they can see the light
bounce off your tired *******
and crest the slump
of your dimpled ***
Your crippled legs beg for a kneel.
Yet you dance on.
In vain.
You will still not be spared.
When they stripped you of your crown,
Did you know they were serious?
Plucking from it the thorns,
that became the spikes
that held you upon and to
the stake.
The rust from your green palms.
Blood red and weary.
Not a tear,
as they douse you in oil
and sneer through expensive veneers.
The cash at your feet
was not an offering,
but instead,
a wick.
Your hallowed bones
and hollow soul,
the offering.
That beacon,
that torch,
meets the fuse.
As a chorus of laughter rises
from the company of despots
at the backwoods ceremony this is-
as the light of your wilting steel
and melting carcass
flicks off of their contorted faces-
can you tell me;
Is this the rooster coming to roost?
Is this the reaping of the sowed?
Is this a lie laid to rest?
Or,
would you have rather drowned-
Like the tablet they stole from you
and threw in the ocean.
To rest in the shadow of a wall.
This is the start of a short political series I'm refining that uses American iconography as a lens through which hypocrisy and corruption is viewed. Enjoy?
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