It's the season of discontent;
winter makes it moreso.
The implications of victory
and defeat fearful, balanced
in a scale we do not know what
is being measured knowing
only our future swings like a pendulum
that's lost its rhythm.
Anger, regret, sorrow seems to be
the trinity blessing, cursing our prayers
as prayers have turned to a dark
pentecost of lies spoken and believed
as we are asked to be ideologies
strippping us of our right and privilege
to say, ``I am that I am."
Our leaders follow the money
and we cannot follow them
and yet we try: the disfiguration
of language transforming into crippling acts.
It reads, We the People as power brokers,
like medieval torturers, put us
on the rack. No political party can make
us who we are, no laws can make
us behave in harmony;
we need but remember who and what
we are and not forget I am you, you are me
for all eternity. No political party
can improve upon that.
We the People is how it begins;
let us hope there is no end.
-Byron Hoot
