Orange Clad is the American Colossus

Tue, 02/09/2021 - 15:15 -- Bunkle

The Tower lies in rapturous silence,

The Margalite Palace ready themselves for wrath and ruin,

The Two Houses of the People and the Consul look on with trepidation

For the last rage of that great Cyclonic Colossus, for the final display of wrath and ruin.

Bemused is the sneer of his command, cruelly was his policy dispensed.

The Pilgrims of Red still ply their hallowed route to that orange Bethlehem. 

On the Floridic Sand, half sunk, the last vestige of the forty-fifth glory lies.
Whose facile bemusement told those passions well, stamped on all things he owned, his name, forged by hucksters. He knows well

the sting of Narcissus, the rage of madness,

And the hate of the old and wretched. 

To the Half-Mad a Citizen of Olympic Proportion.

Orson Kane himself could never have foreseen such a mockery of his work.

Would Charlie Wells find it ironic that this fool acclaimed it his favorite,

 does he not see the irony, nothing lay behind the bravado and machismo.

No rosebud does that Tycoon prize, no empire came from political gambit, only ruin,

For Brand and Name, the corruption hath festered inside, more opposed than ever supported,

A man who claims victory in defeat, bitterly contesting the miracle of the American Experiment.

That Transfer of power went on with all the bluster and fury of a paper tiger king,

That exotic man of orange flesh and unknowable mind returned to a more welcoming theater.

He calls his palace a club, but we know the truth,

That fool lying at the Orange Xanadu, gilded and enamel clad,

Is the Last and Latest Oyzamandias

That Last Citizen of American Kane.

The Richly Deserved Pariah

Unworthy Successor of Julius Caesar

An Augustus of a Failed Coup

A failed Virgil, No Aeneid did Huckabee sing,

Alternative Glory was all that remained.

No Great Carnage but a diminishment in Gravitas

No Fire and Fury, No Great Reckoning 

Came from the final dawn of that January Day.

No Answers came from Pompous Conspiracy.

Merely the Marching of the Dream,

Amid the clamor and noise,

The Truth was marching on.

The Hymn of the Republic is renewed eternally.

The Public Thing is greater than any man

No personage can crush it, no matter how small or grand.

Feel how this negativity dissipates

At the Censure of the Catalinites.

Be Glad for old Cicero Mccain, last of the Optimates.

Vindication came from the long good fight.

Only fools rage and call it governance, the greatest tragedy is to not realize your place in history, to be unable to rise to the occasion, 

to stand idle whilst history calls your name for a fateful hour. 

This colossus was not made of Libertine copper, 

nor strong steel, naught but bluster, and barbarity, 

it will not age into the venerable green. 

It will not stand as a monument for the new world but will fade and diminish,

 while the truth keeps marching on. 

The Lady of Liberty stands alone, taller than any golden tower. 

No man, no king, can lay claim to the fealty of the nation.

The founders divide their powers, to prevent forever the rise of another Octavian,

To stand as a bulwark at the American Rubicon.

Three branches and one.

Executive, Legislative and Judicial all failed to stand at attention

But the people would stand, at last, free from the shackles of antipathy,

To stand against the forces of Entropy and antique regression.

To Renew the Battle hymn of that Republic

And to Stand against the New Colossus,

To be unshaken beneath the fury of his rage.

To resist the call of grifters, the nihilistic destruction of their state.

The rights hard fought for would never be surrendered without a fight.

No Colossus could stand above the first of the nation.

Ideals do matter, no matter their romantic notions, 

Without them, we are naught but a nation of conquerors, 

Not a promised land for all migrants,

Of all creeds, colors, and faiths.

We must defend our faith, 

If not in god then in Man, and the Promise of America,

The Renewal of the Dream.

The Promise of Jefferson, the Labours of Lincoln,

The Unwritten hopes of all those who perished in bondage,

Whilst toiling in the land of the Free,

And Languishing for the glory of the Brave.

No union is perfect, no state, no country.

E Pluribus Unum

None deny this, yet many call for the censure of truth,

Or the downfall of the system,

The Union lives whilst we still aspire for greater perfection. 

To strive for greater justice, magnanimous mercy, and the promise of freedom.

Any fool who sees the unfinished experiment and calls for its dissolution knows not the steady nature of progress, nor the certainty of time. 

All that we can do is stand against the rising of the tide, the pallor of the ignorant and hateful,

To tend the garden of our democracy,

The Public Thing shall stand so long as there are worthy defenders for it.

Res Publica Eternia!

Now stand at the gate, ready for your age, watch for the next colossuses to grace the public stage, and reserve all judgment for that momentous day. 


This poem is about: 
My country


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