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T R Wingfield Jan 2017
Are we lost to a land of too many tribes,
  Too many choices, of too many scales,
  Too many communities of which to

  Could we be better off fractured and scattered
  Left shattered like glass by the highway
  A shimmering reminder to the wayward passerby,
  All is not lost though we

  Could that we be merely cast assunder
  Ground into dust and decimated by ritual fire,
  Then wrung from colluding liquified minds

  T­o form as before but free from parameters previously applied
  Forgotten in the furnace of insanity and strife
There is a group of words in my mind I cannot seem to seperate.  The title represents two of the interior, juxtaposed outside the form of another poem.
It begins as a rumination on the disconnect between generations and geography made so starkly apparent by the recent election, and exacerbated by the duality of social media: it can isolate and embitter an individual in and toward their local community, while at the same time connect and embolden them with a global ego/echo chamber. It sat as one stanza for many months, until I decided to share it. It seemed hollow to pose such vague commentary, and not even attempt to address it, which catalyzed its creation and completion.
Leal Knowone Mar 2016
Your beheaded savior lies at your feet. Blood of the innocent fill the street. decaying bodies mangled meat, this is what must be done, to fulfill the feat. Take a seat and watch the cleansing balance. The bringer of truth, the bringer of light. Now you Have it. Some atrocities are done for the greater right.the world in your hands, trampled under feet.

— The End —