America

Her fingertips cry out
like swirling paintings
of free-form thoughts

the cold touch of despair
and the memory of a song
without lyrics.

Alleluia, God is Good,
here where there is no
God.

Alleluia, God is Great,
here where hope is the
Lie.

Her eyes are closed tightly
like a jaw in rigor mortis
waiting to rot away

the stubborn notion of freedom
the principles of fore bearers
and forbearance.

Alleluia, God is Good,
here where we mourn
Godless

Alleluia, God is Great,
here where slavery is the
Truth.