Between the sunset and the light,
there lives the beauty of wild night.
Of ramphastidae, with rainbow beaks,
the poet dies, before she speaks.
The people march, the workers strike,
there exists the chance of light.
But the presidential bark should give
us change and hope,
to take the serpentine and coiled rope,
to hang ourselves, to shy away,
to not confront the dying day.
But there are sable palms, with chocolate bark
and pastel leaves, its beating heart
is ours. Ignore the call to praise the flag,
to crush the ramphastidae on crooked crags.
For we can glean the newness of a pulpous love where
two lovers engaged, united, share
the chance of organic sense
if only we dare utter, “resistance.”
Or is all the drone
strike, from far away
when we’re alone
in dying day.
Surely, it’s someone else
it’s not thus
when we kill them
we’re killing us.
The king whispers
with golden crown
the court shivers
the peasants frown,
Whatever ye do, please
don’t do this,
resist, resist, resist.