A Burning house
smells like glory,
like jazz music
on a bright Sunday
afternoon.
I see tomorrow
differently from the people
that want to simply belong,
sing, stand, or salute.
I belong to a higher order,
a frequency that climbs
for clarity, while a broken
system thrives
on blood,
conformity,
and children
with low self-esteem.
Some smiles hide conditions
and others: beautiful songs of revenge.
I reason with solutions
to the season—the illness—
wondering when anthems,
creeds, and flags
will make sense.