Aftermath

Little yellow signs litter the little golden hillside.
Bereft of support, they curl up like dead birds.
Their garish plumage gathered up the dust and soot.
Soon they will be buried and forgotten, but their raucous caws shall not.

Little plastic forms immune to decay.
Washed down into storm drains, and clogging our oceans with their filth.
Filling the bellies of the humble Mola mola.
They are no jellyfish, but their sting is much worse.

Little metal legs stand on the hill like tombstones.
Memories to a day full of cheers one moment, and tears the next.
May they rust, and stain our waters red.
God knows, we deserve it!

Little Yellow Signs litter the little golden state.
Ripped to ribbons by her sobs.
They hang from trees like the lyncher’s noose.
Fruits of vitriol laughing in the face of martyrs.

Little buds of hate mock the grace of liberty.
And I, like many, weep.
And I, like many, observe the rape of our freedoms,
And I, like many, observe the rape of our land.
And I look at that golden hillside and think,
“They have conquered with their diabolical farce,
The least they can do
Is pick up their fucking trash when they’re done!”