https://youtu.be/smn_4aSX4oM
47 Years Later
As the body of liberty
in her grave decays
We who write
and what we say
are but the nails
of her hands and feet
from which her delicate skin
retreats.
Texts and speech
beyond this grave
no living eyes or ears
can reach.
Above with squawks,
and flat screen pings,
complacent fear
with hunger rings.
Beneath destruction
wrapped in mirth
lies the dying impression
of her beauty’s worth.
Her decomposition
those ends exposes
all she gives, all she proposes
appearing to strengthen
while we think
appearing to lengthen
while her skin still shrinks.
