I stare at the text on the listing
and sigh.
Snap a picture.
Attach a file.
Hit post.
I doubt anyone is going to want it.
I know,
for one,
I don’t.
It’s no more than an eyesore.
Propped up
against the wall
in the garage. Collecting naught but dust.
Once it held so much promise,
once it yearned to be carried
in the streets, raised up amongst the crowd,
forced into the foundations of tyranny
to hoist them up like bales of hay.
We had no clue how great would be the cost,
But now the battle is fought and lost.
And now
it’s just an eyesore. Propped up
in the garage,
collecting dust while its targets,
are seated up in marble palaces,
collecting our tribute.
The dead of winter in DC,
tyranny creeping in
like frost.
Now that the battle is fought
and lost,
I stare at the text on the listing
and sigh.
