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.