The cold sun beats
on gold pinstripe pants.
Between the same fingers
that grip a pen
a physical form of smoke;
cancerous, like divisive rhetoric
dictating dialogue between
red and blue threads; white
in the middle turned
a depressed gray.

Stand, stare at
a  stale banner;
salute 50 blank stars,
the right choice
follows like a thief
with forlorn hands for feet.
Dead in the water,
Freedom drowning, shouting
in a salty blue tune.

The sun watches from
its godly golden throne.
Out, uttering among  
waves of stars,
speaking with nothing to say.
Freedom sinks to the
depths of Hell
as if but smoke
trying to make waves.