'Amorica The Beautiful'
A communal mood Of ever-growing anger As all over America Dark brows lower, faces florid with Confusion and bewilderment As pain rains from the skies. Grown men and women jump from 40 story high windows And meet a more dramatic fate Than they would otherwise ever see. Endless barrages of Newscaster's voices, spreading shame To the people like butter on bread. Fingers are pointed, but Only to the shiniest target, As one little thing goes unnoticed; Those three little fingers Pointing right back at us. In this schism of our Ever common humanity, There is rarely something so clear As a singular cause, As good verses evil, Or as black or white. How can we (standing at attention Remarkable reminiscent of Aryan Soldiers or Civil War Generals) How can we point fingers? Written November 5th, 2001 © on Nov 05 2001 08:26 AM PST 0 • 9
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"A communal mood..."