the clouds become smoke-
whispers, warnings on the horizon of the things to come.
the armies marching forward.
their worn-down boots stomping on the faces
of our tired, our poor, our huddled masses.
the mud that splashes up invades my nose
invades my eyes until all i can see is
the shining sea and the pipes running through it.
one sound is heard in our reason-proof bomb shelter
the thump, thump, thump of our drummer boy
standing up front, reminding those below to row us backward.
my lips are cracked, my face is dry, my feet are bleeding.
where can I rest?
where can I lay my head?
You have denied me salvation, you have refused me house and home and happiness.
Where do you stand?