The flags aren't flying like they used to. They're not riding on cars, fastened to newly bent, molten beams wafting in the prickled air where gray spines of steel sliced open our fortified tranquility, where the most we had to fear was ourselves. “Where is the wind?” we call out. “Why do we still bury our poor children in the flag draped caskets of a rich man’s war?” Have our principles plummeted into the craven jaws of gravity where a once proud people reveled in the reasoned hope of humankind? Where is the wind? The pennants to their flying? They’re not waving red, white and blue, they’re not beaming over the living, or wafting in the haggled air where bodies coursed downward, hands empty of symbols... © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)