Amending Our Heads Into The Sand

Never let ideas die,
not with a man
be it Hitler’s one master race
or Luther’s dream for you
to be measured
by your content of character–

If dreams do die,
and we let them,
a father died
for you to forget him,
a mother fought for her
and her daughter’s right to live
as happy servants to men,
like two good Cinderella’s content
to live old testament,
as if we never moved forward
and still took the advice of a book
over the lesson
and the pain of living on Earth.

If dreams do die,
and we let them,
than our armies are dead
and since bled out to hide the truth–
that freedom is fleeting
while some will do their best to win
in a battle to use others as bread,
as salt, as bills to line their balls
and make themselves above our bones,
imbedded deep in the East Room
as if constitutions were written as jokes
and you haven’t the memory to end
the madness of amending our roots,
our truth, our head into the sand.

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