us humans haven't quite cleaned up
everyday we send nasty chemicals spiraling up
which invariably stuffs the ozone layer up

our polluting of this rim of protection
continually goes on we're not holding the pollutants in retention
which shows we're damaging its convention

there needs to be more
innovative ideas developed
to subdue the ***** air
                                     which we humans
                                     keep overly producing
                                     here and everywhere

so as the ultra violet streams
don't not become too extreme
they do irreparable harm
and give cause for alarm  

we humans have an obligation
to our planet's ozone cover
by not sullying its protective sheath  
with tons of polluting smother

Pre-emptively
grieving the moment,
I stand very still
one finger tracing the soft outline of my own, alien lips
the petals of an exotic lily,
the mystery of my own making
leaves me breathless and powerful in the dawn,
before the elation becomes regret
and my reasons are erased.

Of immaterial vision birthed in mind.
Of spirit annihilating the selves,
of calling it plan. The one-
a semblance scattered on deck space
refracts on reflections of the reactions of tokens
of the carnivalesque,
of the hunger artists,
of phenomenon-
which may or may not exist depending on reflective surface of the true self,
of the motion of tides,
mocks motion in body,
of obsession.
The tonality of the "be" and the "is" and the "will be" is deafened by the "I am,"
by the Ohm.

Of shuddering and implanting embraces,
of blessing on every ember of cleanliness that is true self,
of the oneself that exists above selective memory,
not draft of time arrow but the material existence of dream,
not disembodied but embodied.
Of breeding,
of circumstance and forking fourth dimension prison terms,
of crowd control,
of she wolves and their feral children,
of forceps interpolating material reality of conception,
of Dreamtime,
of pain,
of pleasure,
where they are relations-
of skin perversely hanging, dually,
gratifying and sullying-
Fraying beautiful disasters that react to invisible ripples

I, the oneself, implore you to awaken in your utility and then outside of it.
Take those boot straps and bend the bars of confinement with them.
Chisel and sculpt light into a fabrication of quantum of action.
Celebrate the ordinary and expose it.

Of stargazed caustics,
of the early universe.
I stand awake as not the expression of design
and no longer connected to Earth by my roots
but awake inside cocoon,
entrapped behind slits,
of alien cage otherness.
The Akh beseeches ownership of the Ba
I want play dice with god and end in draw.
I am Sekhmet-Wadjet who dwells in the west of heaven,
I am Sahyt among the souls of Of.

Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.

He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...

A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.

He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.

They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.

i’ve had too much to drink tonight.
please excuse me if i stumble.

have you ever been to a bar where you want to **** in the sink?
not in any, “**** this place” sort of way,
just,
on principle.

this is the sort of place
where patrons
**** in the sink.
the sort of tavern,
where the sink ******* are;
where you thank god for grime;
where it’s not just atlanta *****;
where,
should you **** in that sink,
you are not just sullying the reputation of one befouled public house,
but are continuing in a proud tradition,
of most noble and illustrious drinkers.

In this world of raging winter
The cold is all I know.
Seeing how I bare my soul
with every breath I blow.

Frost is now my only friend
as it viciously nips my nose.
Sullying my inner child
as it tears through inferred clothes.

Yet my heart thrives on this endless cold,
feeling adept in deaths embrace.
Being but the coldest thing
In all this frozen place.

In this world of raging winter,
the cold is all I know.
Touched by none, I greedily accept
the warm embrace of storms and snow.

So the Violets lived
in the long shadow
of a slaughterhouse,

separated from death
by cyclone fencing
and a scrabbly yard.

In summer, family time
meant sitting on the porch
drinking cans of Budweiser.

It took about a six pack
each to mask the smell
of cow and diesel fuel,

but the rumble of semis
and the relentless lowing
of cattle were inescapable.

In winter, woodsmoke
filled the small rooms,
slowly turning the walls

the color of ***** snow.
Icicles hung from gutters,
lengthening like knives.

The youngest Violet daughter
grew up, moved to Louisville,
and became a painter of vivid

abstracts.

I have one of her paintings
hanging on a wide white wall.
I like to pour myself a Scotch

and watch the mangled colors—
brilliant viscera sullying
a slaughterhouse stall—

the smell of peat and smoke;
the taste of earth’s undoing.

Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought form a cocoon.  
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.

I carry a vial of ashes
As a pendant over my heart
Sometimes, the glass breaks
And it smears all over my art
Thus, I force myself to remember
The hatred turned into a lamentable ember

The palms of my hands ache
And I kneel in fragments of glass
Of my own creation
I fumble with the ashes scattered
I grab at it and the soil
Which all slips through my fingertips

I am a damnable, hateful person
And I carry a requiem note
Fraught with envy in my voice
I cannot see where I shall go
I have no light upon my path
But I can see from whence I came

A placid path
That has kept me safe
From the thorns and bramble of life
But alas, now I know grief
And pity is my closest companion
In the discrete absence of those
Whom I could call a true friend

However, though I know
This path, yellow brick,
I do not know where it leads
But I cannot move on
There is glass and ash on my path
And it all comes into darkness,
Like thread comes through a needle

I cry out
Again and again
My hands bleed
As I scrabble at the ground
And I know it punishment
For keeping the ashes of hatred
Rather than the petals of love
Or, perhaps, the tears of sorrow

There are a good many things
I could have chosen to keep
In the vile vial
I wear as a pendant to distort
My dear and precious heart,
So foolish and jealous

But, unfortunately,
It is ash in my heart
Ash in my head
And, finally, ash on my path
Sullying the joyful, sunshine yellow path
That leads me, the thread, the through the needle
Should I finally rise to my feet and the occasion
And choose to tread on broken glass
And search my surroundings
For something else to keep in my tender vile

I get scared that I don't do much, and I get scared when strangers yell at or touch me. I get scared of whizzing cars that go so fast that they'd turn me into pulp and broken bones under the weight of their axels because I'm afraid of broken bones and of falling. I'm scared of being a coward and of sullying or destroying my integrity.

I'm afraid of people--especially boys--and how and why they make me feel because it seems I either care too much or not enough, and I get scared of both. I get scared and mean when they say nice things to me since I'm not very nice to myself. I get the jitters when they talk to me and I get scared because I feel and act dumb.

I'm scared of being stupid and I'm scared of being overestimated. I'm scared of apathy, and I'm frightened by the willful ignorance that exists everywhere.

Most of all, I'm afraid of causing others unnecessary suffering.

I want to be better, I sincerely do. It is just all very frightening sometimes.

The darkness creeps in
a little moonlight touches you
your skin, bright, smooth, motionless
as you lay there
sleeping
deep breathes and sighs
rolling in the deep of your voice

I sit here watching you
a dim glow at the tip of my mouth
creates an eerie red cast of light
it plays off the freckles
scattered on your shoulders
like stars
whispering to me

you move
and groan
a distress and cry to the night
some bad dream
sullying the sweet confines
of your inner most thoughts

I reach out
touch you
bring you back to me.

"come back to bed"
it's all i get from you and a squezze on my hand
the red light runs off your shoulders
and i return
to your warm embrace
once again

I am setting this free
This sullying feeling that
Seems to surround us when-
Ever we conjoin paths

I’ll miss parts of you,
The parts that attracted
Me to you early on
Not the disturbances that
Crept out and cleared up
This illusion

Now you might say
I am not who I
Pretended to be
And that to you
I am tainted

Fine, I can be that
I am anything
You perceive me as
But you see,

It does not matter
This naïve view you hold
Because to me,
I am a free bird…

But, try not to think too hard
I was just a figment
Of your imagination
I do not exist

the worship service looks full this morning
though, admittedly, i haven't been
in attendance since Christmas.
families in their Sunday best
sit on wooden pews
in a patriarchal church
that spent its tithings
on a multi-million dollar
gymnasium rather than the poor
their savior told them to look out for.

men, women, and children
awkwardly pretend
to sing contemporary hymns
beneath their breath,
hoping no one will notice
as they pick their noses,
thinking absently of Easter dinner.

i write poems
while the pastor prattles,
his shallow words
an empty drone
filling my ears
with white noise.

i feel myself drifting.
i haven't been sleeping
lately. the news has got me thinking
each passing day might be our last
on planet Earth and i'll be incensed
if i waste one minute more
than necessary
in this cramped
and ugly church,
a sanctuary smelling faintly
of old ladies, cheap perfume,
and wilted flowers dying silently.

just one more week
and i'll have been
god-free for half a decade.
for now,
i grin and bear the tedium
and mourn the tarnished legacy
of the radical rabbi,
a Nazarene who took on an Empire
and died by his convictions.

i daresay,
he'd be rolling in his grave
if he could see
these rich, white
Presbyterians sullying
his good name—
provided, of course,
he'd not so famously
vacated the premises.

Song is my choice, what say you brothers?
Rick reloaded his bow, nocked it back, aimed his next assualt,
He'd use symphony to set her free, see the girl released from silence,
Or cleanse her of the inner monster sullying her soul, plaguing her mind,
And crushing her heart.
John smiled, drew back his humming axe for more blows to come,
He rose his tenor to lift leaves and rocks, in clods and clumps,
Stealing foundation away from treacherous underbellies, slithering towards them,
Drawn fangs overflowing with venom, bringing the ground to a sizzle,
Rushed as a blurry confluence of approaching green, darting back and forth,
Paul removed his hand barring Kevin from impulse, allowing him to strike,
Delving into the allowance of angels.

Love Toy
by Ryan P. Kinney

It all started Valentine’s Day.
       A day of plastic hearts and candied affections.
Two love-weary travelers,
Overwhelmed by loneliness and desire,
Found solace in each other’s arms

Our stark white uniforms mingled.
Our glasses clinked.
Our lips meet.
While the sins of loves lost
       Hung like the albatross
And pressed a crooked heart into your bare skin.
So beautiful a moment
      For such a deceitful act.

You spent the whole night, transfixed.
       Listening to my heart beat.
Amazed that something so beaten
       Could still function.

In the beginning you were “The Crush”
A passing fancy, I was sure.
       Born of my desperation and your compassion,
But that act crushed “The Crush”
One simple kiss.
       Spoke the words, “I love you.”
And began our own false romance.

I could see how beautiful you were
       Inside that shell of obscurity.
You could see the light that shown within me
        Shrouded in a cloud of darkness.
We both had such beautiful scars.

But you refused to be committed.
To wear these bindings
And dwell within these padded walls.
Yet, kicking and screaming,
       You still accept that you love me.

We are cloak-and-dagger lovers.
       Borrowing sensation
              Stealing kisses
       Whispered intimacy
              And secret *******
One holds the hush, the other the blade

That is for but the moment, though.
We spend all our raw emotions at once.
Choosing to live fully
      At only that instant.
We have all the time in the world to die.

You can’t keep me from others
And I can’t you.
But I want no other.
Although you stand in front of my face
       You refuse to be seen.

What do you want from me?
I want everything from you.
I want to peer into your darkness
       And drink in your warmth.
I want to be so intimate
        You’ll have to smoke a cigarette when I’m done.

Our liaisons have become a formula for pseudo-dating.
Meet
       Kiss
              Touch
                      Feel
Repeat, as necessary.
So close to the real thing
       That only the word “girlfriend” separates it.

We ARE seeing each other.
We see more of each other
       Than those who don’t.

We even see the barbed wire
       That separates us
Digging into our skin,
       Ignored
While we exchange momentary, blissful passion.
I love you,
For now.
Tomorrow, who knows?

I will surely go to a Hell of my own making
        For loving you.
               Sullying, dirtying, corrupting you
And it is that fact
       That keeps you from me.

The guilt of my sin,
       The heft of your innocence,
Weighs heavily on my soul
       As I drag you down with me.

But, in spite of me,
A new hope was born in utero
Inside this woman came new light.
Enveloped in your inner angel
Was proof that I could love again.

You will hurt me
       I will hurt you
To which I reply
       Please do!
             Don’t you dare stop!
For the love of your God
       Let me feel something.

Some love is better than none.
Pain is better than the void.
Let’s just live in the moment.
And agree this is weird,
       And *****,
             And cheap.

All I can say for certain is,
       I love you.
You say you love me,
       But what does I love you mean,
When it doesn’t mean I want you.

Love will be found, even in love's dearth,
No truth more plentiful and abundant,
For Love warms my heart the breadth of its girth,
And warms me with her truth, resplendent,
Love is dove, she's peace and fire,
A raggedy ribbon on the breeze,
On golden wings she aspires,
Like one of nature's dutiful bees,
Love is a butterfly, fragile, soft,
Painted with pallet got from dream,
On sublime wings borne aloft,
Her aura vivid and supreme,
I welcome Love, her divine zephyr,
That flutters, beckons out to me
That warms me with other worldly ether,
And makes me sail on sunny seas.

Love is no crime, a truth known to all,
For she does not discriminate,
Love's dearth the righteous mind appals,
Should in that truth we ruminate,
Those who know not doubt Love's truth,
The shallowest of all denial,
A kind of beauty rare, forsooth,
Dost yet withstand a cynic's trial,
They cannot dream of sullying her flame,
With their inferior hand and magic,
With treacherous tale and treacherous game,
And crass, perverted logic,
Her truth will ring out, proud and loud,
Across the flowering universe,
Our Hearts clad in divinest shroud,
I communicate its joys in verse.

I want to catch a butterfly.
A pretty little butterfly,
Delicate, Beautiful, curving, intense, vibrant.

But not trapped in a net.
She chooses my rough hand,
Rather than a rich flower to provide for her.
Not a conservative or vain butterfly.
Not one that flutters around you,
But has an aversion to touch.

A butterfly that longs to be admired,
In all her beauty,
Only by me.
To land on MY hand,
Let ME stroke her wings,
With rough, sullying fingers.
Beckoning me,
With her soft fluttering,
And as I stroke,
Opening willingly to my touch.

Just a little at first,
Sensitive and nervous,
But as I respond with care
To her beckoning colours,
She opens wide,
So I can caress her delicate, vulnerable wings,
And play.
Until her colours stain my hand,
And she is tired,
And we rest together.

My ***** little butterfly.

I saw you
I thought a light in the dark of night
Someone who doesn't exist
Someone I want to be
I saw you
And quickly put you on a pedastle
A paragon of ideals
Perfection

I saw you
Make choices that change fate
Become something else
Something less
I saw you
And I couldn't believe
Sullying what is pure
No longer dressed in white

And its too late
I want love
I thought you wanted
But you want love
In physical form
Nothing more

You're just a ****

Mystic lake, nestled in the kind of scenery
Landscape painters drive many miles to find.
Water. so clear you can see
Almost to creation and the rocks
A hundred feet below.
Cold but never frozen,
It’s water is the color of a Summer sky
Because it is so pure.

Recreation Paradise straddling two states-
Boating, hiking, swimming…
And on one side there’s gambling
Where you can exercise your fortune
With the spinning of a set of wheels
Or the rolling of the dice.
Such popularity has brought
A shadow to the pristine shoreline.

Development and overuse
Are sullying the waters
Once a vivid cerulean,
But now a dimmer version of the color
With a mistiness as depths increase.
Is it too late to stop the damage
Can people yet be made to care
And turn around the gradual fading
Of one if God’s most premier jewels
ljm

Pure was the snow
now muddied-
by the ***** boots
of travelers
who never settle.

Roaming from town to town
sullying snowfalls everywhere.

Why, oh traveler
do you step onto the snow
and create an eternal imprint,
only to walk away?

rebated, rebirthed rebooted, and rebuked
ill shod Unitarian atheist

Though avast percentage
of stonehenge temple piloted ghosts,
harking back millennia
constantly zip unseen thru aerospace,
they unwittingly espy
woolly sheep hush fleeced herd
profoundly religious peep pulls
plodding fast as their
cleft hoofs take them
along well worn path
of former crusaders.

Among acquiescent devout subjects
one self repentant
quest shunning skeptic poet
suffers interminable emotional flagellation
employing righteous indignation
against his own iniquitous misdeeds
sullying the sacrosanct marital covenant.

Unpardonable egregious transgressions
committed (well nigh
***** deeds done dirt cheap
a dozen orbitz ago)
think adulterous flagrante delicto
constituted consummating rutting
sabotaging high fidelity.

Passionate ******* incorporating
communicating non verbal
vernacular animal needs
spoken on behalf of laity
comprising unlearned, nevertheless
superstitious population
indulged verboten fruit appetite,
yet adroit oral (tongue in cheek)
spread courtesy word of mouth.

Most pious take as gospel
every word in religious tomes
their collective soul asylum polestar,
and doth decree important doctrines
with especial accord
equal insignificance applied toward
Judeo-Christian holidays
across the chessboard of life,
thus Easter ranks as no exception
to the golden rule,

where Santa Claus reached an a chord
follow auspicious signs
alit in the night sky
shaped like a drinking gourd
perhaps amassing plentiful harvests
upon hamlets strewn
across ******* populated Earth
asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard
sharing plentiful Horn
(and Hard art lesson learned)

to stave off barreness, ignored
going forward seeding nascent
March Madness with help from Lord
and Taylor as midwife hoot
tended Ville Nova moored
by striking Wildcat fanatics,
who unbelievably
espied heavens cleft asunder
and golden rays poured
while collective spectators

loudly deafeningly screamed
while housed within the soundgarden
analogous to ferocious cats
who hissed and roared
witnessed history scored
earning players knighted
with Excalibur sword
thence entire team handed
Taj Mahal shaped award,

which aforementioned
*** hide lacks, cuz zit
happens tubby April Fool's joke,
thus above iterated verses somehow needs
just a little bit of relevance to yoke
thine admitted ambivalent
reaction to sports,
yea aye pay figurative ****
hen to Rabbinic, generic fanatic primal
tribal village people clan destine woke,

and swinging focus of this poem
back toward Religious perp ported berth
when (sans antiquity) trumpet signaled
thus, any superstitions blew away dearth
when distant shofar heard
in every home and hearth
anticipating arrival of the Easter Bunny,
who brings mirth
and hop poly distributes sweet treats,
which children as grown adults,

no matter necessity
for teeth to be removed
the sugary over indulgence wool worth
today thee American Dental Association
chastises candy manufacturers
bandying more weight
gaining deadly, debauched,
and decadent, trait
then adultery - verboten fruit to sate
hash-tagged (vamoose skat
dad dulled) reprobate.

rebated, rebelled, rebirthed, rebooted,
and rebuked courtesy
one ill shod Unitarian atheist,
who means NOT to affect
any sacrilegious fallout
nor offend devoutly religious
man, woman, or child,
when the most important
Christian holiday notated,
a veritable “movable feast”
occurs Sunday, March 31, 2024.

Though avast percentage
of stonehenge temple piloted ghosts,
harking back millennia
constantly zip unseen thru aerospace,
easily being mistaken for led zeppelin,
they unwittingly espy
woolly sheep hush fleeced herd
profoundly religious village peep pull
plodding fast as their
cleft hoofs take them
along well worn path
of former crusaders
analogous to Riders on the Storm.

Among acquiescent, concupiscent
fervescent, juvenescent
obmutescent (äbmyəˈtesᵊn(t)s),
and unreminiscent church going subjects
versus one self repentant
quest diagnostic shunning skeptic poet
suffers interminable emotional flagellation
employing righteous indignation
against his own iniquitous misdeeds
sullying the sacrosanct marital covenant.

Unpardonable egregious transgressions
committed (well nigh
***** deeds done dirt cheap
more'n a dozen orbitz ago)
think adulterous flagrante delicto
constituted consummating rutting
sabotaging high fidelity.

Passionate ******* incorporating
communicating non verbal
vernacular animal needs
spoken on behalf of laity
comprising unlearned, nevertheless
superstitious population
indulged verboten fruit appetite,
yet adroit oral (tongue in cheek)
spread courtesy word of mouth.

Unlike doubting thomas here
sitting on his rumpled stilted skin
most pious markedly take as gospel
Jesus Christ as Superstar
every word in religious tomes
their collective soul asylum polestar,
and doth decree important doctrines
with especial accord courtesy the cars
equal insignificance applied toward
Judeo-Christian holidays
across the chessboard of life,

thus Easter ranks as no exception
to the golden rule,
where Santa Claus
didst dodge Duesenberg
reached an accord
following auspicious signs
alit in the night sky
shaped like a drinking gourd
perhaps amassing plentiful harvests
upon hamlets strewn
across then ******* populated Earth

asper cornucopia exhibited secret hoard
sharing plentiful Horn
(and Hard art lesson learned)
to stave off barrenness, ignored
going forward seeding nascent
March Madness with
swift help from Lord
and Taylor as midwife hoot
tended Ville Nova moored
by striking Wildcat fanatics,
who unbelievably

espied heavens cleft asunder
and golden rays poured
while collective spectators
loudly deafeningly screamed
while housed within the soundgarden
analogous to ferocious stray cats,
who hissed and roared
witnessed history scored
earning players knighted
with Excalibur sword,
thence entire team handed

Taj Mahal shaped award,
which aforementioned
*** hide lacks moxie, cuz zit
happens tubby April Fool's joke,
thus above iterated
verses somehow needs
just a little bit of relevance to yoke
thine admitted ambivalent
reaction to sports,
yea aye pay figurative ****
hen to Rabbinic, quixotic

iconic, Hebraic, generic,
fanatic, ecstatic primal
tribal village people
wu clan destine woke,
and swinging focus of this poem
back toward Religious
perp ported berth,
when (sans antiquity)
donjon we now donning
gay apparel trumpet signaled
thus, any superstitions

blew away dearth
when distant shofar heard
in every home and hearth
anticipating rabbit arrival
of the Easter Bunny,
who brings eggs sited mirth
and hoi polloi doth hop poly
distribute sweet treats,
which blessed children
of the korn as grown adults,
no matter necessity

for teeth to be removed
the sugary over indulgence wool worth
today thee American Dental Association
chastises candy manufacturers
bandying more weight
gaining deadly, debauched,
and decadent, trait
then adultery - verboten fruit to sate
hash-tagged (vamoose skat
dad dulled) reprobate.

The vigor is gone from the Stars and Stripes.
What's happening is truly degrading.
The purity of the WHITE is sullied;
The RED and BLUE are slowly fading.

The sullying of the color WHITE,
Which stands for innocence, reveals
That we are slipping--that we are not
Holding true to our ideals.

Are we innocent if we
Ignore the years of hard-fought fights
For justice and equality
As we dismantle voting rights?

If RED means hardiness and courage
And the readiness to sacrifice,
What we're seeing happening now
Makes that meaning imprecise.

Too many people refuse to make
A sacrifice and throw a fit
When asked to do so to help protect
The lives of others, if even a bit.

If BLUE stands for vigilance,
Perseverance, and justice for all,
Then our approach to those areas
Needs a major overhaul.

Perseverance for many means
Believing conspiracy theories that make
Others wonder how truth can be
Such an easy thing to forsake.

Vigilance is also lacking
In many people who fail to see
That huge threats of attacks from our own
People are not hyperbole.

And BLUE for justice for all? Sadly,
That is something we can't declare yet.
Discrimination, selfishness,
And bigotry prove that we're not there yet.

By doing what's right, we must inject
More color into the current Old Glory.
If not, what we'll see will be
A sad end to America's story.

-by Bob B (8-5-21)

Soldiers come marching in
If they ask for God
I show them my documents
Soon I know I will have no home
Soldiers come marching in
To find their home in the pavement
The years may be easier
If it was tough for the ones
Dreaming of war in Trenton
Often Philly will **** you
If you take two on the river
The soldiers grappled with my hands
My arms were removed and numb
So, they put a rifle on my shoulders
Lumberjacks had paved the way
The soldiers kept marching on
Sullying the forests and horses trampled the dead grass
Blood flowing across the white ****** snow
Years can go by with any smiles
Since, the soldiers can keep marching on
Never knowing when the war will end
Never knowing when they will see their loved
Halos of old memories still hang over their heads
You can see it in their eyes that are dead
As they try to save all the children
Some of them shoot them down
Like mockingbirds instead