America, A Vision

I started writing this poem almost verbatim and completed it within an hour or so, and I really like it.






America, A Vision.



Oh America, thou sacred colossus,
Mighty in thy gilded youth,
As when first you leapt,
Fully formed from the shining brow,
Of Albion in all his glory,
Wondrous in your robes of red,
As in fury rose the flames of liberty,
And scorched the dull sun,
As wild revolution spread,
Exulting, a new flag unfurled,
A higher state of union,
Forged in battle, tempered in blood,
A spirit, armoured with truth,
Wielding the sword of sacred vision,
Stood defiant before the ages,
Even Rome in all its power,
And proclaimed as herald,
A mighty empire coming as no other,
Whose will shall be stamped,
Upon the face of the whole world.


Yet from the heights of hubris,
So nemesis will fall, with wings afire,
As once did Lucifer, effulgent,
As a falling star, bringing disaster,
As war lets loose all its horrors,
The trenches and their poison gases,
Men slowly choking in the mire,
And drowning in the darkness,
As from the factories of science,
Come trundling out on their tracks,
Slow tanks sheathed in steel,
Whose words are sudden death,
Spat forth with a deadly stutter,
For the sin of betraying the Sioux,
Has brought forth its own revenge,
And death rides forth, upon its dark horse,
To stalk the land anew, seeking out,
Fresh prey in their pretty uniforms,
Having been betrayed by their own leaders,
To run amidst ranks of blazing cannons,
That swiftly shred the falling flesh,
As a sharpened scythe, slices through,
The fragile groaning harvest stems,
As countless in their agonies,
They fall screaming to the floor,
And we shall see thee America,
Thy blessed union now broken,
And your own people re-divided,
As spectres of discord rise forth anew,
and martial law mar thy majesty,
The cycle of the ages shall turn,
And turning, shall turn again,
Razing with fresh riots thy cities,
And as Rome once fell, so shall you.


White haired now, aged, weak and divided,
Poisoned by its own inner corruptions,
Cursed by the very power it cossets,
Even over the lives of its own children,
Sits in silence upon a throne of stone,
That binds in golden chains its master,
And faces the future blind and helpless,
As distant storm clouds draw ever near,
Until finally Crashing upon its shining towers,
Unleashing the oil black tide of crimes,
That mask themselves in plastic patriotism,
Whilst burying all their dirty little secrets,
In empty ballot boxes, the coffins of democracy.