Not unlike a brazen giant of freak fame,
With transplant faux hair and a bad spray-tan;
Here at his brain-washed, iron-clad gates shall stand
A mighty moron with a torch, whose flame
Is the persona of gaslighting, and his name
Betrayer of Exiles. From his beacon-hand
Glows world-wide “No-Trespass” sign; his eyes scan
The bridgeless harbor that his sinful cities frame.
“Return to your ancient lands, you matter not!” cries he
With puckered lips. “I don’t want your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses scheming to steal from me
Such wretched refuse shan’t set foot upon my shore.
Send these, the homeless, back across the sea,
The light’s off and I locked the door!” by Hugh A Tague
Thor forewarned me of the impending storm
his hammer thundered in the distant sky
from a gentle breeze the strong wind is born
whipping up the sea as it blows on by
spray from the gale-charged whitecaps sting my face
great swells pound the pier beneath my feet
mimicking foot steps, the waves keep pace
timbers trembling as they run past me
specters of warriors invade the shore
the angry surf crashes upon the beach
sounds of mortal combat with shield and sword
it seems their victory is now within reach.
The sighted can see, all that can be seen.
In blindsight I feel, what all things can be.