Political Disquietude

Buckled at the knees, face in the dirt,
one can only pray for enlightenment, but
at a time when morality is valued by
silver and gold,
a baton twirled
is mightier than the sword dipped in ink
and sprawled across
ancient parchment.
Men march in unison, into foreign lands,
while chanting words
of a dead language:
Democratia Sit Virtus

Flag inserted into the land, the
obligatory explanation is
written on paper, covered
with black marks, in soot.
Erupt in glory, a city once was.
Redacted sentences are had for
good reason:
to keep characters in the dark.
Transparency is only a concept that
belongs on the back of a bookmark.
Dust covers
clouds and envelopes the sky,
dark and as black as superstition.

We speak with symbols, because subliminal
advertising becomes cogitative, rather than
entering one ear and leaving the other.
What belongs in the border is bold,
as we marginalize open space, although the occasional
proverbial foot will cross the line.
A slash of the throat will tell you
that all eyes are dotted,
just as some lines are crossed.
Like an olive branch exposed as thorns.

A proper medium is exploiting
vulnerability under rule.
Hot air is expelled when
converting oxygen,
or exclaiming honesty and integrity;
lest we forget land comes from sea.
It is in their nature; our nature to build
roots underground.
Better to keep intricacies hidden.
Never is the iceberg fully exposed.
Or the brain.
The kitchen.
Even the vault.

What you keep from the people
is for the people.
And common ground is neither
left nor right,
despite what you’ve been made
to believe.
It’s about the courage
to think before you speak.
It’s the courage it takes
to build strength and
beseech the weak.


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