The Coldest Day

To whom do we scribe
 in these days since the war,
 when troglodytes
 spun science into lore?
 They traded it all
 for the six longest years.
 They picked at their eyes,
 and they melted their ears.
 
 Delicious harmonies were
 shredded like pork,
 and “My rights!” became
 the chant of the GORKs.
 
 Sprayed, disarrayed, displayed,
 but never engaged; only enraged.
 
 Played with and tortured,
 intent thick as mortar,
 we were leaves furled to a crisp,
 thrown in the air,
 gone in the wisps.
 
 Mocked with The Verse,
 upside-down and terse,
 their god kicked the infirm,
 his motives confirmed.
 We found the trolls
 shielded by their screens
 as they click-clacked away
 despairing our dreams.
 
 They empowered each other
 to our detriment,
 words no longer ours
 to implement.
 Destruction was
 imminent
 while we escaped to the
 elements, and,
 behind us,
 the striped eagle’s cries whined,
 then declined, suffocated
 under their front lines.
 
 Without eyes, there could be no tears,
 only the yearnings repelled by our fears.
 “Nothing to see!”, even if they had sight;
 “There is no battle!”
 Okay, then what?
 Only shadows of spite
 working unwise
 and holing their eyes?
 Twerking the lies
 while straightening red ties?
 
 Consternation
 gave to consecration
 and then desecration
 as they congregated
 and manipulated.
 The screams and chants
 of a Shaman’s dance
 summoned a hurricane,
 a flooding reign
 of miseducated disdain.
 
 “News, news everywhere,
 nor any drop to think.”
 Red parties
 met with
 white peoples
 to create a
 blue bruise
 on this side of
 the hemisphere.
 
 To what end,
 as we started to bend,
 when anger’s a trend?
 Who’s left to win?

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