Sarette's Reve De Mort: And Other Stories Of Not Quite Magical Realism

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Single nation,

Our damnation.

Land locked,

beyond the seas

Of many thief.

Locked

In a pillory,

Eating hickory

As if it were sand,

In this burned land...

In this Earth.

Yet times are few

That we see the pew,

We see the land,

In its fragility,

In its anxiety.

But this is our nation for the many,

In this charred, charred land of Tennessee.

For many see only sudden corruption.

But only in their land of weeds and soil.

In this charred, charred land of Tennessee,

We have those on the left and the right.

But so rare do we kiss one goodnight.

Instead the affection is a bygone memory.

In this charred, charred land of Tennessee.

Yet we can have better, if we choose.

Instead of watching things burn, under the pew.

Under the pew, we could see a better world.

Instead is only the Earth for the few.

We can't wait for public loyalty.

We can't wait for public outcry.

We can't wait for politicians not to lie.

Instead we can only try,

If not to better ourselves, for others.

Who afford not a pew or a goodnight.@@