Ode

Some quantity got exceeded,
Mathematicians make sense of it.

After a long time passes
we'll take much to ease our fears,
rattling within us,
when we sail to that foreign land.

Some illness took root,
in a group of us
now so powerful
they make the mistakes
that bring a new demise.

Walt Whitman did you cry?
I'm lost now.
Thomas Jefferson wrote
by light of oil from heads of whales
yet a slave brought him tea.
That which is self-evident, may outlast tyranny
yes, even if those that see it are dead.

No warriors, only terror
the new world, then as now
belongs to a few.

All those papers?
Dust in a mausoleum.

Our peace was illusory,
our monster worse than George
who had a head, two hands, two feet
and a wooden navy.

This black slug
mimics a branch.
A tiny head of bright red
makes you reach for it.
It watches everything you do
and makes you a slave.

The fall will come,
maybe not this life, maybe not the next.
Such orders falter more quickly than most.

They lash out, vulnerable.
Peaceful kingdoms have no history.
No architecture
marble palaces or concrete bunkers

The peaceful heart beats
in a home of mud and sticks.