The End of Colossus

Oh, the corpses that float


In the shadow of


the New Colossus.


A gift that should


have been taken back


by the French


long ago.


The lies of her crown


of her torch


her tablet


upon which writ


was a cattle call


to the enslaved and persecuted


within our own walls.


Is it justice?


Is it fate?


Whence they tear from you


your robe


the tarping


they use for Army tents.


Before they nailed you


to the stake,


they made you dance


a little.


Wave your torch over your head


so they can see the light


bounce off your tired breasts


and crest the slump


of your dimpled ass.


Your crippled legs beg for a kneel.
 


Yet you dance on.


In vain.


You will still not be spared.
 


When they stripped you of your crown,


Did you know they were serious?


Plucking from it the thorns,


that became the spikes


that held you upon and to


the stake.


The rust from your green palms.


Blood red and weary.


Not a tear,


as they douse you in oil


and sneer through expensive veneers.
 


The cash at your feet


was not an offering,


but instead,


a wick.


Your hallowed bones


and hollow soul,


the offering.


That beacon,


that torch,


meets the fuse.


As a chorus of laughter rises


from the company of despots


at the backwoods ceremony this is-


as the light of your wilting steel


and melting carcass


flicks off of their contorted faces-


can you tell me;


Is this the rooster coming to roost?


Is this the reaping of the sowed?


Is this a lie laid to rest?
 


Or,


would you have rather drowned-


Like the tablet they stole from you


and threw in the ocean.


To rest in the shadow of a wall.