G. Murray Thomas
The president is painting
mushrooms in the sky.
The artists are declaiming
their opinions on the sly.
Stars and stripes and dollar signs
are plastered on the wall.
The songs of liberation
are hanging in the hall.
The wine is served in still lives.
The metaphors are chilled.
We toast to peace and prophets
before the blood is spilled.
We pat our backs with gossip,
blades slipped between the words.
They’ll be tomorrow’s headlines,
and next week’s theater absurd.
Sirens blare in the background,
the band picks up the tune.
We waltz across this new sound,
while disaster starts to croon.
He sings a song of heroes.
The painting depict their fall.
We’re sculpting resurrections
in neon ten feet tall.
They’ve sold out all the artwork,
and auctioned off the clouds.
We march away in silence,
into teeming skeletal crowds.