Western Skies
#21 of Poetry c.2019
A poem about greed.
Western Skies
What is the value of gold,
in the arms of someone old?
Can it have a certain purpose,
something on its shiny surface?
What is a memory if not God,
inside-out and acting odd;
a something without much history,
but acts as if it's all a mystery.
The seams are there to send,
another clever lie to lend;
where were you if not here,
if that was ever made clear?
Their effigy was made out of law,
the fire itself in a state of awe;
the Fatherland must always come
at the cost of the human sum.