Romanesque
O volunteers. O lost boys with your guns,
cigars and adolescent costume play;
O stalwarts of a reenacted Sons
of Liberty demanding right of way,
I’m sorry that you feel so trod upon.
I’m sorry that a narcissist has taken,
like some Antichrist, your sense of dis-
enfranchised hopelessness and grim mistaken
quest upon himself to the abyss.
I’m sorry that your Paine is QAnon.
I’m sorry that it’s come to this. Your snake
has turned as surely as the fabled worm.
The truth is severed and the news is fake.
Behold, mere anarchy is brought to term
and takes its place across the Rubicon.
by Rick Mullin
Editor’s Note: This poem is chock full of references and word-play, such that every reread uncovers more hidden meanings. This is the best kind of poem, especially when one is needful of something to help make sense of the world in which we live.
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