we stay
trapped in the trenches,
covered in broken glass
the remnants of dust and debris
blood and sweat lines our backs
as we hold up what is left of our signs

the air is thick with smoke
cannons explode
neighborhoods burn
forests are left to die
as industry churrs noisily
poisoning the waters
intoxicating the air
like mustard gas

every street flashes with artillery
shells marked with propaganda burst across airways
every sunday
the paper makes its way to us
each headline
a headshot
another bullet lodged in the chest of the republic.

We reload with rage,
aim at strangers we call enemies
reach out, forcing our bayonets
into the chests of our brethren

families have been splintered
regiments;
what were once dining rooms
are now war bunkers.
the battlefield has consumed the land
the earth once graciously gave us.
Capitol steps, classrooms, supermarkets,
church pews, courthouses.
Where ideology is sworn in like a soldier
taking an oath for their country,
and compromise is treated as surrender,
waving the white flag.

Casualties mount,
22 dead
7 injuries
8 permanently debilitated
millions of children drilled in lockdowns,
forced to memorize the routes
so they don’t make it 23.

The wounded are left behind,
there is no room for casualties in war.
the sick, the poor,
those crushed under debts
find stuck beneath the cannonball,
gasping for any last breath.

And atop a throne of gold,
as he’ll so proudly proclaim,
sits a leader
issuing orders that sacrifice the living
for profit,
for power,
for “purity.”

A war machine, oiled by greed
driven by cruelty
sending citizens to bleed in battles
they never chose.
The generals drink, while the trenches fill,
their hands stained not with mud,
but the ink of contracts
and the blood of the forgotten.

Their forefathers watch as their efforts
are decimated.
burned.
betrayed.
A country built on structure,
that is now destroying its foundation.

And there on the hill,
at the top of the flagpole
a flag stands.
torn by shrapnel
edges singed black
stars dimmed to embers
stripes reduced to ribbons of ash.

hanging not as a sign of triumph
nor hope
but as a relic of a war
we are losing.

O’ say can you see?
the rockets’ red glare
the bombs bursting in air
giving proof through the night
that our flag
is not still there.