Mourning the West: A Poem

There are tyrants in the West
once called the Land of Freedom.
Useless monarchs sit on thrones
—a ghost-detritus of days gone—
like noble clowns with crowns,
waving scepters as if magic wands
conjuring wraiths, and nothing,
props theatrical in a tragic scene,
a landscape desolate,
vandalized by hordes
desert-dressed, chanting surahs guttural,
wielding blades, planting bombs,
plotting deaths, a new Black Plague unreined,
the fierce possessors of their dispossession.
    
There are senates in the West rat-rascal-filled
and parliaments hoodwinked by ruffians.
Puppets people silly towns
drawn to mindlessness by trinkets,
zombie tools now moved to sleep,
now moved to anger, 
moved to apathy or movelessness,
by toxic mottos
of calculated hollowness 
and futility well-engineered.

The West is tainted.
The West is stinking.
The West is rotting.
And the spirit of the past
—Steel, and Light, and Vision—
leaves a body weakened beyond hope,
a specter vanishing into thin air
becomes a myth, a lie, a dream.
For, yes, the West is dying,
not with majesty and splendor,
a trumpet-loud Apocalypse of grandeur,
but pushed to madness, and to sickness,
and vileness, and decay.