Give me your tired,
Your poor,
For huddled masses,
Line the mattress,
Of a country offering,
Breath taking,
Views of wretched refuse,
Squandered sustanance,
Heaped on high.
So yes,
Send these, the dehomed,
To stand before this broken throne,
Where diamonds hang,
Like storm clouds,
Reminding them,
Who does the reigning.
Tempest-tost,
Force fed cafeteria tater tots,
To grease and fuel,
Their wilted soggy dreams,
That slip through cracks,
Of plastic rigid backed seats,
Soaked up,
By vomit colored nylon carpet fibers,
Seeping through,
Into the guts of greed,
Who’s bones and flesh,
Are of copper and tar.
Whose eyes pierce so cleverly,
Like a porcupine’s quills,
One could rip them out,
But would risk destroying,
All that they’ve been made,
To think they love and need.
All aetheric residue remaining,
Vaporized,
By cold fluorescent lights,
Inhaled,
By the zombified,
Compatriots at their sides,
Keeping them just high enough,
To call this ride a life.
Minds racing at a stand still,
For their hearts,
They give no chase.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door,
To show that it’s just wood,
Rotted,
And bronzed.

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