See it fly, past our blind eyes
Settle, there, in our midst, and how
Plainly, frequently it’s offered, yet we
Refuse with clenched fists
As those in power prefer to
Burn our ears with phallic rhetoric
Proclaim its accomplishment
While the third hand wages war
We, quietly, sheep-like, vote them in
Are we worthy of its grace?
Are human beings, in essence
A hateful, cruel species?
Can that minuscule minority
Preferring peace above all else
Win in the end?
Or will we be history, departed
Our avenues, streets, cities quieted
Returned to nature’s hand, restarted
© 2011 by DC Lessoway