This poem is a reworking of Christopher Reilley’s An Alphabet For Burning The Lie, ” which was shared as part of the dVerse Abecedarian challenge last week and was a righteous diatribe that I felt needed rhyming – because I’m a rhymer!

As ash drifts from the burned norms of its old commands,
America breathes the dust; strength is all it understands.

Beneath the banners stitched with grief and gathered gold,
the crowd learns the echo turns to the only creed they hold.

Courts now bend like reeds to the winds they’ve made,
their roots gnawed by the loyal until they’ve clearly frayed.

Down Main Street, drums of order loudly cry,
battle-ready brutes insisting, “Comply, comply!”

Each eagle, drafted, trimmed to fit the slogan’s line,
wild eyes trained to turn away from what may shine.

Fear is franchised at the borders of the mind,
sold as safety, wrapped in propaganda’s bind.

Gagged teachers mouthing history becomes a crime,
while the blackboard holds the truth beyond our time.

Hymns to the flag drown out the hungry pleas,
and bless the power, while on the streets they freeze.

In ink from executive pens, dissent grows ever weaker,
as though the very page flinches from the speaker.

Jails have risen where libraries used to breathe,
new ‘good books’ are written purely to deceive.

Kettles of rage, all night, are set to simmering,
by those who trade within the screen’s glimmering.

Law is now a mirror, only flattering the strong,
reflecting back the only face it loved all along.

Marches wear masks of smiles, rehearsed and refined,
while history’s dragged, uncredited, left far behind.

Neighbours are sorted, coded, and soon to be filed away,
names grown thin like paper, night after night, day after day.

Oaths have been edited with a most ruthless pen,
and mercy’s crossed out once, then crossed out again.

Prayers from police land like cold coins with a clatter
an alms for peace poured away like they didn’t matter.

Questions are quarantined so sickness may be sealed,
behind the plastic words, the truth is never revealed.

Rights fall like leaves in the seasons turned by polls,
privileges granted to those in the most favoured roles.

Screens sermonise obedience in sparkling, vibrant hues,
and bless the cruel with a charisma they can’t refuse.

Teaching grievances from lecterns across many stages,
word salads are spilt all over the digital pages.

Under long shadows, the uniforms teach of a new grammar,
the syntax of which is taught under threat of the hammer.

Votes are vacuumed up from the ever-hopeful room,
a quiet consent descends as the game is set to resume.

Whispers take the long way home these nights,
cold amongst the promises of ever brighter lights.

Xenon-bright lies blaze, marking the exits clear,
herding the frightened ever forward towards the fear.

Yards fill with flags, while faces fade from view,
belonging swapped for a theatre of the untrue.

Zero-sum dawns demand a different sun,
we answer with a love and rage as one,
refusing every night they’ve just begun.

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Today’s Daily Stoic poem:

See The World Like A Poet And An Artist

The oh-so-ordinary may seem
little more than functional and pragmatic.
Take the artist’s view of the scene
or the poet’s filter, sensational and dramatic.