America, you are arrogant, though some disagree, and see you mighty and free, you are not so, for those who imagine you thus be weak disciples, students of a faith designed by deception, live yet, America, for your conclusion’s nigh, from control and war, which but you struggle to notice your heels bearing down on truth, on love, and in haste the best plans of you unfold upon expired flesh, train cars of death to remove you as king and queen of most frantic man, and does with envy, war, and dis-ease settle, and charms and drugs can make us seem happy and better than your flag- why weep you now? Soon, in this, our time, you’ll awaken the world and America shall be no more. Conceit, her shame, is weakening the Republic, and pious convictions be the killers of truth. We the people, afraid to speak, are on our last fool’s errand, one foot in front of the other, noses rubbing the stars, staggering along a warpath which is not ours, it belongs to death. © 2010 by mark prime Death
(The Weaver's Song)