old bones lie under the earth, new bones just lie ~ Monday Potluck

the bones of my fathers bleached white with nervous horror
roll around under layers of earthen life and death
pretending it will never happen
regardless, the invasion marches


across land once stolen, twice blinded
pious faces dark with prejudice
practice artifice, lulling us
into a stupor once again
 

the old-guard has passed away
a new set of rules taking precedence
false gods have taken up residence
invitation gone unnoticed


from a memory faint, almost impotent 

words penned by another remind me
“all that glisters is not gold” and horror
of horrors, we are embracing the fake

~~~

love,


Eaton