Post by David Nelson Bradsher on Feb 12, 2008 14:21:03 GMT -5
The colors of a troubled nation fly
above the stadiums and buildings, high
enough to lord resplendence overhead
as symbols for the living (and the dead).
The Stars and Stripes; Old Glory—names abound
for that long-lauded flag which, touched to ground,
is called a ruined rag, and set aflame
to purge the soiling filth of earthen shame.
But something stains it more than dirt or mud:
a travesty of leaders, wreaking blood
from goggle-eyed recruits who, once deployed,
engage the rage, and vanish in the void
of Middle Eastern anger—ancient, black—
that goes, free-flowing, in the arid crack
of blood-encrusted lips that open wide
to swallow souls of all the young who died.
Salute the starred and striped depiction of
a bright collage of patriotic love,
but as you tear up, think of Y2K
and of the night we died—Election Day.
above the stadiums and buildings, high
enough to lord resplendence overhead
as symbols for the living (and the dead).
The Stars and Stripes; Old Glory—names abound
for that long-lauded flag which, touched to ground,
is called a ruined rag, and set aflame
to purge the soiling filth of earthen shame.
But something stains it more than dirt or mud:
a travesty of leaders, wreaking blood
from goggle-eyed recruits who, once deployed,
engage the rage, and vanish in the void
of Middle Eastern anger—ancient, black—
that goes, free-flowing, in the arid crack
of blood-encrusted lips that open wide
to swallow souls of all the young who died.
Salute the starred and striped depiction of
a bright collage of patriotic love,
but as you tear up, think of Y2K
and of the night we died—Election Day.
